


Coffee, Tea, or Me?

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Gentle But Firm...), Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Charming Acres, Assumptions, BDSM Scene, Barista Dean Winchester, Charming Acres (S14 Ep15), Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, First Date, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex And All That Involves, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Happy Ending, Lonely Castiel (Supernatural), Lust at First Sight, M/M, Miscommunication, Praise Kink, Spanking, Strangers to Lovers, That Whackadoodle Town From That Episode, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Two Person Love Triangle Elements, bdsm club, kinky fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Charming Acres: Where Everybody’s Happy!Dean isn’tunhappyliving in Charming Acres, but serving coffee at the diner isn’t fulfilling him in quite the ways he needs. Luckily, an hour's drive takes him to Little Rock, a much bigger city that’s more suited to his special tastes. After being rejected by a handsome newcomer to town, Dean decides to blow off a little steam.Castiel can already tell that Charming Acres will be a frustrating place to live—there’s a beautiful barista at the diner, but what are the chances that anyone in this odd, time-warp town would be a good match for him? Luckily, his lonely existence is somewhat improved by an exclusive BDSM club in a city an hour away. Just what he needs to put a certain green-eyed diner employee out of his mind.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 306
Kudos: 1143
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to check out my 2020 Dean Cas Big Bang fic! 
> 
> A little housekeeping, first: this is fiction, and is in no way supposed to portray a real, healthy, sane, or consensual BDSM relationship. If you want to learn about BDSM, or sex in general, there are many better and safe resources than fanfic, so please do some research and seek those out rather than taking your lead from fiction.
> 
> With that out of the way, on to some thanks!
> 
> Thanks, first of all, to the DCBB 2020 mods for running this challenge smoothly for another year. You are appreciated.
> 
> Secondly, huge thanks to [Castielslostwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings) for making me believe this fic was even worth posting. She's a true gem. Thanks also need to go out to [andimeantittosting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting), [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and captainhaterade for the various forms of alpha/beta/comma-slaying assistance they provided. Betas are the real MVPs.
> 
> The biggest thanks, of course, has to go to [FieryAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryAngel). I am honored to be able to team up with her for this fic, and include her absolutely gorgeous artwork. You can find her art masterpost [here](). This is her first Big Bang, and so any comments and encouragement you can give her would be hugely appreciated!
> 
> With that... let's get on with the fun.
> 
> This fic is a lighthearted, fun little BDSM romp, to be taken with a pinch of salt and enjoyment, and not meant to make you think too hard. (I have enough other fics doing that, at the moment!) I hope you like it!
> 
> \- Mal <3

_Charming Acres: Where Everybody’s Happy!_

Dean sped past the dumb, vintage-looking, ridiculously chirpy sign with its perfect family and mid-century lettering, stomping his foot down on Baby’s accelerator so that she let out a spiteful growl. He pulled his hand back in through the window; flipping off the sign was petty but, in his defense, he’d only had one coffee so far that morning.

His brother Sam and awesome sister-in-law Jess had moved to the picturesque little Arkansas town of Charming Acres a few months after their daughter Bobbi was born. They wanted somewhere quiet and safe to raise their kid, and so, like the single, overprotective dumbass that Dean was, he’d followed them like a stray goddamned puppy.

Scowling through the windshield into the ridiculously perfect morning—seriously, birds were fucking singing—Dean coaxed Baby into another throaty rumble, just for the hell of it. As a barista, he’d be smiling at customers all day, so his drive to work was the only time he could be a dickhead without jeopardizing his tips.

Charming Acres was, well, charming—hideously so—with rows of pastel houses and perfect lawns with pink flamingos and timed sprinklers that kept the grass even greener than the owner’s bank accounts. Sam was a lawyer; he could afford one of those dollhouses. But Dean, he drifted and did whatever job fell into his lap, which was why he had a sixteen-mile drive to work from a run-down neighborhood near a chicken farm instead of a house like a painted bird box.

The town was white bread. No, worse…it was whole wheat. Seven Grain. _Organic, sprouted-spelt bullshit._ Dean hadn’t ever been that kind of person, but when it came down to it, he loved his brother far more than he loved himself. And by staying close, they could still hang out a couple of times a week.

That was all Dean needed in life.

Well, that was most of what Dean needed in life. His other ‘needs’ weren’t really congruent with lemon-yellow porches and fondue parties, in his experience. (At least not here. In some other towns Dean had been to, you never knew what went on behind those twitching curtains. But Sam would pick the dull one, wouldn’t he?) So, to get those kinds of needs met, Dean had to drive an hour to Little Rock every other weekend.

Dean stopped making Baby express his mood, swinging her smoothly into the parking lot behind Harrington’s Diner. She certainly didn’t need to bear the brunt of his frustration and boredom. As the love of his life, she deserved better. His car was the one part of Dean’s life that looked like it fit here in Charming Acres—the gleaming 1967 Chevrolet Impala was a gorgeous classic that he lovingly maintained and preened over. He got a lot of compliments on her, especially at the diner.

As for Dean himself, he didn’t fit quite as well. His clunky boots and plaid stood out a little in this cutesy town where most of the men wore suits and the ladies somehow always looked like they were going to church, even at the grocery store. But Dean was fine. He hadn’t moved here to make friends.

“You’re late, bitch.”

Luckily, Dean had one friend.

Charlie Bradbury came to Harrington’s Diner every single morning, entirely because Dean worked there. The only reason she was in Charming Acres was to look after her sick mother, who had retired here. Luckily, Charlie worked from home and mostly stayed far away from the perky residents when she wasn’t making fun of Dean by ordering increasingly ridiculous milkshakes.

“I’m always late,” Dean replied, smirking as he slipped his apron over his head. “Mr. Harrington is too polite to say anything—that, and he knows the local ladies love to get an eyeful of me over the counter. Keeps their lives exciting.”

Dean took up his position behind the Formica counter in the overwhelmingly blue and pink, fifties-style diner. It was almost empty this late in the morning; most of the residents were either stay-at-home folk or had headed into nearby cities for work hours ago. They did a dribble of a trade at the diner all day, but it really picked up for lunch and dinner.

As he moved across in front of her, Charlie snorted. “I’m a local, and you sure aren’t my type.”

Spreading one hand across his chest in abject horror, Dean staggered dramatically. “You wound me!”

“Oh, shut up, we both know I’m not your type, either,” Charlie threw back with a wink.

Snorting and shaking his head, Dean reached down beneath the counter and pulled out an old-fashioned milkshake glass. “Alright, Chuckles the Clown. What are you torturing me with this morning?”

“Oooh,” Charlie said thoughtfully, spinning a full turn on her swivel stool as she considered. “How about…peanut butter with gummy bears and a cotton candy topping.”

Dean wrinkled his nose in judgement, his eyes not leaving Charlie for even a moment as he reached for a long-handled spoon. “Do you have any idea how long that cotton candy machine takes to clean?”

“Yes,” Charlie answered, her voice _twinkling_ with innocence, “I do, actually.”

Dean sighed. “Peanut butter, gummy bears, cotton candy. Coming right up.”

“Aww, see? You do love me! And I thought you’d sworn off the fairer sex.”

“No,” Dean said, for the millionth time. “Women are awesome and you know it. Don’t make me recite my labels at you again, Charlie. You know I’ll get all the flags out, and Mr. Harrington will have a cardiac event, poor bastard.”

Chip Harrington, elderly and mostly kind, was far too non-confrontational for Dean’s liking. His _‘not wanting to offend anybody’_ bordered on being offensive by itself, in Dean’s opinion, but at least he wasn’t openly homophobic—which, at his age, was probably all Dean could hope for. There was probably no changing someone when they’d been alive since Roosevelt was president.

“Bisexual, homoromantic,” Charlie recited, poking out her tongue. “I’m not an idiot, just teasing.”

Dean smiled fondly at Charlie before grabbing the milkshake glass, leaving the redhead at the counter while he stepped into the back to whip up her abomination.

“Morning, Mr. Harrington,” he called as he stepped into the kitchen, heading to the big refrigerator to get the peanut butter.

“Good morning, Dean,” the old man croaked from his table at the side of the kitchen, where he had the previous day’s receipts painstakingly spread out before him. “What’s it today?”

“Peanut butter, gummy bears, cotton candy.”

“How about we don’t add that one to the usual menu?” Mr. Harrington suggested.

“Right there with you, boss.”

“I’ll be heading out in a little bit; I have some errands to run. You know how to contact me if you need me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, smiling to himself as he paused by the kitchen door on the way out again. “On the car phone.”

 _Car phone_. An actual, ancient, wired-in car phone. A true Charming Acres man in action.

Dean went to work whipping up Charlie’s grotesque shake, presenting it with a flourish and a slight slosh of peanut-buttery milk as he slid it toward her. “Voila, madame.”

“Ooh, the cotton candy is so _puffy.”_

“Only the best for my most irritating customer,” Dean said warmly, wiping his hands and then tossing the white towel back over his shoulder.

Charlie was about to retort; Dean could see something scathing forming on her lips, but the sadistically happy jingle of the door opening had her biting back whatever it had been.

“Welcome to Harrington’s!” Dean announced, plastering on his patented 1950s ‘please tip well’ smile before the door was even fully open.

The man that blew in on the perfect fall breeze was _new._

Dean managed to stop himself from gasping at that fact alone. The guy was wearing a suit, though, and a long, beige trench coat. _He’ll fit in here_ , Dean thought at first glance.

Until he approached the counter and Dean realized the guy kinda looked like he’d slept under a bridge—an expensive suit, but no idea how to use an iron or a comb, apparently. He had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and the slightly dazed expression that outsiders driving through Charming Acres sometimes wore—as if they weren’t quite sure whether they’d wandered into a living museum, or if the town was just this lame.

This one, though… This one was _gorgeous,_ holy shit.

His dark hair was crying out for Dean’s fingers, and his ruinous, too-blue eyes had an edge of steel to them that made Dean want to throw himself over the counter so he could kneel in front of those cataclysmic, catastrophic, _orgasmic_ thighs.

 _Fuck me,_ Dean’s brain said, before supplying him with a deafening dial tone.

“Morning!” Charlie was chirping as if she knew the guy, entirely oblivious to the fact that some of Dean’s major organs were struggling to reboot from their sudden system failure.

“Hello, Charlie,” the guy said as he walked directly up to the register.

Dean’s brain had to try the boot command over again because that _voice_ , good God in Heaven—

“Dean, have you met Castiel yet?”

“N-no, I haven’t had the pleasure,” Dean squeaked out. _Get yourself together, Dean_ , he scolded himself. He had to be professional. Or at least not a drooling creep.

Slowly, the newcomer turned his eyes to Dean, taking him in with one deliberate drag up and down. His smile was tiny, hardly hitching his lips, but somehow it was everything. “I’m Cas, Castiel Novak. I moved into the Carters’ old place on North Pine Street a couple of weeks back,” he said.

Neither the name nor the street meant anything to Dean, but he nodded anyway. Finding his feet a little, finally, he flashed Castiel his usual cheeky, slightly flirty grin. “Well then, welcome to Charming Acres.”

“The sign has welcomed me quite sufficiently,” Castiel said dryly.

Dean let out a chuckle. “Better be careful, Cas. They’ll round you up and replace your Stepford chip if you say that in the wrong company.”

Castiel squinted. “I don’t understand that reference, but if the inference is that I don’t quite fit in here, I’m afraid that you might be right.”

“What brings you here, then?” Dean asked, pulling the white towel down from his shoulder just so that he had something to do with his hands other than grabbing Castiel’s lapels and dragging him across the counter.

“My brother moved here,” Castiel said with a resigned tone that Dean instantly recognized. “He loves it here. It’s not really to my tastes, but he’s all I have.”

Dean felt a tiny rush of air into his mouth as his lips fell open into an ‘O’. Not one ever got that he was here just for Sammy. They told him to live his own life; they didn’t get it. This guy got it.

Castiel swung the canvas bag from his shoulder, pulling it up onto the counter and opening the satchel-style flap to dig a plain leather wallet out from within. As the flap closed, a bright glint of light caught Dean’s eye.

A pin—a rainbow pride pin. Right there, proudly on display. Dean’s chest shot upward like a rocket, doing some kind of aerial loop over the roof before it returned to him.

Deep breaths.

 _Pride pin doesn’t mean queer. Doesn’t mean single. Doesn’t mean interested,_ Dean chanted in his head.

When Dean finally looked up from the bag, Castiel was staring right at him. They looked at each other in silence until one of Castiel’s eyebrows rose, quirking commandingly.

It was a look that had one of Dean’s knees give an involuntary twitch, begging him to hit the floor. Instead, Dean leaned forward onto the counter with the heels of his hands, giving Castiel a wink.

“Well, since you’re new in town, put the wallet away. First drink is on me, Cas.”

“Hey, my first drink wasn’t—” Charlie began.

“Shut up, Charlie,” Dean said, his eyes never leaving Castiel. “What’ll it be, Cas?”

“Something hot, please,” Castiel said evenly, as if Dean hadn’t been flirting at all.

Dean grinned wolfishly at the opening, allowing his tongue to rest on his bottom lip for a moment before he grabbed a branded ‘Harrington’s’ mug from under the counter, holding it up with a teasing smile.

“Coffee, tea, or me?”

Castiel blinked sluggishly, his eyes flicking slowly back and forth from the mug to Dean, as if considering.

“Coffee,” he said, pointedly throwing a five on the counter and turning to Charlie.

Internally, Dean made a crushed, despairing sound like the dying groan of a pitiful creature. Externally, he plastered on a smile and made a damn coffee.

****

Castiel swept out of the glass doors of the lobby—yes, he knew walking so fast made his trench coat flap out dramatically behind him, but if he was honest he kind of liked it—and trotted swiftly down the stone steps to the curbside parking spot that was reserved for his Lincoln Continental. He didn’t even have a sign marking the spot. Because this was Charming Acres, the space was always politely left free by the other employees of Harrington’s Financial. (Harrington’s—was everything in this town owned by a Harrington?)

Castiel’s boss, Sunny, had let him go an hour early, for which he was hugely grateful. It was Friday, and the traffic into Little Rock was going to be awful by rush hour. It also meant that Castiel would have time to stop for a coffee at the diner, a little pick-me-up before the hour-long drive.

The coffee was the pick-me-up. Not the absolutely beautiful barista. Or so Castiel kept trying to remind himself.

Maybe he’d been to the diner every day for the last couple of weeks; maybe he’d chatted lightly with Dean every time. But the trips were only about the coffee.

Coffee, coffee, coffee.

It only took a few minutes to drive across town. Castiel’s new workplace was only a short drive from his home, and the diner just a mile further. It was a quaint little town, Castiel supposed, but he found it strangely stifling.

Michael, on the other hand, adored it. He’d always been a stuffy, pompous stickler, though. Castiel loved his brother, but there were reasons why Castiel, stoic as he was, had nicknamed his older sibling “assbutt” as a child. Unfortunately for Michael, the name had stuck.

Charming Acres was fine, Castiel kept telling himself. It was just fine. He could live here, stay under the radar, work at the world’s smallest and most old-fashioned accounting firm, and save his fun for Little Rock every other weekend.

It was fine. It was safe.

No risk of betrayals and broken hearts here. No, Castiel wouldn’t find anyone in this kind of town that would be a good fit for him, that much was certain.

But the local barista was amazing eye candy, regardless.

Castiel hunched over the steering wheel a little as he tried to see past the boat-like rear end of a huge, black classic car in the parking lot behind Harrington’s. It was a fantastic car—Castiel was no mechanical expert, but he had eyes. It was lovely. He wondered briefly if it belonged to the owner, or perhaps the pretty barista.

Pulling in and cutting off the engine, Castiel took a moment to check he had everything he needed for his evening in Little Rock. He’d be able to quickly shower at Balthazar’s place when he got there, so his niggling feeling of having forgotten something wasn’t a big issue; he was sure his friend would be more than happy to lend him anything he’d missed. Bal was so happy to have Castiel close by, instead of all the way back in Illinois, he’d likely do anything to keep him here. He’d even offered to go to an anniversary showing of _Titanic_ in the city with Castiel, but Cas would never torture his oldest acquaintance like that.

He saved his torture for people that enjoyed it.

Satisfied that his overstuffed overnight bag was packed with everything he could conceive of needing, Castiel zipped it up and shoved it back onto the rear seat. Coffee, then, and he’d be on his way.

Slamming the car door behind himself, Castiel walked up to the entrance of Harrington’s and took a breath. Just coffee. Nothing else. No other reason he wanted to come back here yet again.

The fact that there were plenty of perfectly serviceable drive-thrus on the way to Little Rock was _not_ relevant, he told himself firmly.

The bell above the door to the diner was just as irritatingly nostalgic as the rest of the town. It was like living in _The Saturday Evening Post._

“Welcome to Harrington’s!” Dean’s deep voice met Castiel at the door.

“Good afternoon, Dean,” Castiel said as he walked between the tables and up to the counter.

When he’d first arrived in Charming Acres a month ago, Castiel had thought that the diner was a relic. But now he knew that most of it was a careful, caringly selected reconstruction, pure nostalgia in brick and mortar form. The people, too—they weren’t playing old-fashioned for fun, in this town. It was just the way they were, their morals, their likes, their habits.

For a little while, he’d worried that this wasn’t a safe space for him—he’d stopped hiding his sexuality the day he’d finally come out to his parents and Michael, and he wasn’t about to start now. But luckily, he’d run into Charlie—a very loud, very gay, and very friendly programmer—in the grocery store, and she’d reassured him.

Sure, she said, there were _some_ bigots here. There were living neanderthals everywhere. But she hadn’t had any issues, and there were plenty of kind, supportive folks.

It had been nice to hear and was one of the biggest factors in why he hadn’t already given up and moved back to Illinois. Well, that and the fact that both Michael and Balthazar would probably hunt him down and drag him back again.

Castiel hadn’t brought his satchel in from the car—he’d seen Dean stare at his pride pin the first time they’d met, and he had been pretty flirty after. It was flattering, of course, but Castiel didn’t want to encourage him. It wasn’t fair.

Did he have to be so infuriatingly beautiful, though?

“What’ll it be this time, Cas?”

Castiel pulled his wallet out of his coat pocket and set it down on the counter before looking up at Dean.

Lost, wandering through the green fields of Dean’s eyes for a long moment, Castiel forgot to say anything. It was Dean’s slowly growing, amused smile that alerted him to the fact.

“Uh—yes. I, uh—a little pick me up,” Castiel said, trying his best to appear awkward rather than _flustered_. It wasn’t hard; he almost always appeared awkward. At least...day to day, he did. When he could shake off his trench coat and his manners and slip into another headspace entirely, well, that was another matter.

Dean’s grin was something else. Slightly crooked, it revealed perfectly even, white teeth that just helped to highlight how stunningly symmetrical the man’s freckled face was. He had hair the color of wet midsummer sand and endearing wrinkles beginning around his eyes—he wasn’t some kid doing this job to get through college, that much was clear. He looked to be in his thirties, probably close to Castiel’s own age.

If Castiel had met him somewhere else… God, if he’d met Dean where he usually met people, he’d have had him bent over the counter by now, not staring back at Castiel with an increasingly cocky grin.

“Should I ask you again?” Dean said.

“Ask me?” Castiel tilted his head at the question. “Ask me what?”

Dean’s eyes dawdled lasciviously down Castiel’s chest and then back up, gliding along his jaw before meeting his eyes again. It was just a look, barely a stare, but it felt lewd in a way Castiel wasn’t used to experiencing—not like this, anyway, in a coffee shop, from a relatively unknown man in conservative middle America.

When Dean licked his lips before responding, Castiel’s eyes followed involuntarily, helplessly, like a child chasing a kite string, even knowing that the toy they wanted belonged to the wind.

“The same question as before,” Dean said. His voice was a rumble—not as low as Castiel’s own, perhaps, but warm and rich and pleasing. In a different setting, that voice would send shivers up Castiel’s spine. It almost did here, too.

When Castiel didn’t immediately respond, Dean propped his hand on the counter palm down, smirking as he leaned to the side to grab a mug from somewhere below—there must be a shelving unit beneath the perfectly clean worktop.

“Coffee, tea, or me?” Dean asked, holding up the white ‘Harrington’s’-branded coffee mug.

 _You, you, you!_ Castiel’s mind screamed immediately…but no.

Castiel shook his head just a little, barely a movement, just enough to feel his shirt collar shift against his neck. He’d been here before—tried things, dates, even the occasional brief relationship—with people like Dean. People on the streets, people at bars, people he shared interests with.

Vanilla people.

It was either never enough or too much. Either they stayed when they found out what Castiel was and he grew increasingly unsatisfied, or they ran, because just the idea of him as his full self was too much.

In some ways, Castiel was far too awkward and dull—an accountant who’d grown up in a house without a single TV, come on—and in other ways he was too intense, too blunt, knew far-too-precisely what he wanted. People didn’t like it and didn’t often want to give it to him.

He couldn’t blame them. He didn’t.

But it also meant he wasn’t going to answer the beautiful barista honestly.

“Coffee,” Castiel said unhurriedly, pulling out a crisp bill and pressing two fingers down onto its face on the countertop before sliding it very slowly across to Dean. “To go this time.”

Dean’s lips pursed together regretfully and he gave a measured, rocking nod. Something akin to a defeated little sigh fell from his lips as he leaned back down, replacing the branded coffee mug and pulling out a paper cup with a ‘Harrington’s’ cardboard sleeve already around it.

“Alright, coffee,” Dean said quietly, already pouring black nectar into the cup with practiced precision. Slipping on the plastic top, Dean placed the coffee within Castiel’s reach. His smile was the very picture of _‘no hard feelings, can’t blame a guy for trying’_ as he took the cash and added quietly, “Message received, Cas. Three dollars change.”

Castiel shook his head, his voice gentler than before. “Keep it,” he said, taking the paper cup in hand and nodding once before he turned toward the door.

He felt…well, he felt a little _bad_ , honestly. He didn’t want Dean to feel undesirable, or wrong, or any of the usual things he knew were wrapped up in the feeling of rejection. Castiel had been rebuffed plenty of times in his life, romantically and otherwise, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

But this was for the best. Better now than later.

Castiel ducked into his Lincoln and once again cursed the lack of cupholders in the old car. He sipped his way through his hot coffee in the parking lot, then backed out around the rear end of the huge black Impala and headed to the highway, to get on his way toward Little Rock.


	2. Chapter 2

The traffic on the way into Little Rock had been a bitch. Dean wished he could have left an hour earlier, but Mr. Harrington had taken the day off to take his wife to a bridge competition, and he couldn’t leave the diner unattended.

Thankfully, Martha, a very Stepford older lady, had come in right on time to cover the evening shift with Andrew, the cook. Dean had given her a bear hug of glee, earning a squeak and a flap at his chest with her notepad, before tearing out of the door.

He was going to be a little late, but everyone was probably used to that; he’d been making the same rushing journey from Charming Acres ever since he’d moved to the town. Dean had the whole thing down to a fine art by now. He packed his bag the night before, loaded everything up in Baby, and made sure he took a really good shower that morning, to minimize the amount of prep he’d have to do when he got to Impact.

Impact was a very discreet, private club, and it was the stringent membership guidelines that made Dean so fond of it. There were a lot of rules, all of which kept the club’s clientele safe and ensured they all had a good time. It was run by Different Loving of Little Rock, a BDSM group that hosted munches and play parties throughout the month.

The club was a huge proponent of both R.A.C.K. (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) and Safe, Sane, and Consensual play, and its rules and code of conduct were built around the intersection of those principles and the Little Rock local laws.

As a sexual submissive, those things were what gave Dean a framework where he could let go and be secure. So he spent a decent chunk of his meager salary to cover his membership dues and cover charges, and had no regrets about it.

By the time Dean had pulled Baby into the parking lot of Impact, he was already relaxing just from the routine of it. He’d been feeling all over the place, far more bothered and disappointed about being turned down by the gorgeous new regular at Harrington’s Diner than he’d have let on to anyone. Castiel was captivating, and Dean desperately wanted to know more of him—in every way that could be taken. Shooting and missing always sucked, but there was something about the commanding, firm way that Castiel had rejected him (again) that struck a nerve deep in Dean—he felt like he’d done something wrong, as if Cas was a dominant that he’d let down or disobeyed, rather than just a handsome man in a pink and blue building laden with milkshakes.

It was a bit ridiculous, but Dean could recognize it for what it was: his own internal need to please taking a beating because someone simply didn’t want him. Dean had lived this life for a long time, he knew what he was about and what he needed.

So, the twice-monthly party at Impact was well-timed.

“Hey, cher,” Benny rumbled warmly as Dean stepped up to the door with his duffle over his shoulder. His strong Louisiana accent brought to mind delicious Cajun food, hot sticky nights, and impressive biceps. Yeah, Dean had been there. They were great friends now and rarely played together, but they’d been a good fit for a while.

Dean dug his wallet out of his jeans pocket and flipped it open to his membership card. Benny, as the bouncer for these party nights ever since he got married and became a private-play-only kinda guy, was a pedant for procedure, even though he knew damn well who Dean was.

The door that Benny held open with his foot let out the usual nightclub scent of bodies, beer, and ingrained smoke, even with cigarettes having been banned years ago. Dean breathed in deep; it smelled like freedom.

Benny barely looked at the card, but he nodded at Dean’s proffering of it. “Thanks, Dean. You here for some pick-up play tonight or just to mingle?”

“Play, for sure,” Dean said with a wink. “As long as I can catch a bite or two. I’ve got that itch.”

“Well, all the usual folks await,” Benny replied with a sweep of his arm toward the simple, barred, black door that led inside. “And a new guy—in our group, actually.”

Dean had been about to dart inside and rush off to get ready, but Benny’s words snatched his attention immediately. “A new guy? Since the last munch?”

Different Loving’s rules stated that new members had to attend at least two munches—non-sexual social events, essentially—to get to know some of the active members before they were allowed into the club itself to play. Dean had _been_ to the last munch, and he’d known every face there. The only way around to rule was to—

“Balthazar personally vouched for him. Apparently, he’s known the guy for years; they were kids together.”

Huh. Well. Dean knew Balthazar a little; they weren’t exactly each other’s types, but he knew the older British switch was well-respected in the club, as a whole.

“Fair enough, then,” Dean said. “Guess we’ll see what he’s about.”

The two men parted with a smile, and Dean slipped into the dim interior of the club. It was warm inside—a requirement when many of the members wore very little. Technically, there was a dress code for the club. It was a rule put in place as a litmus test, more than anything—if someone couldn’t be bothered to read up on the guidelines and dress appropriately for their first few visits, then who knew what other rules they’d think it was their right to break? Long established, proven members like Dean, though, generally wore whatever they wanted. The rule wasn’t for them.

Dean switched up what he wore based on his mood, but he had certain staples that just helped get him into the zone: some kind of lacy or silky underwear, and a mask.

There was certainly no requirement to be masked at the club—almost everyone here knew each other. But for Dean, and a couple of other members who did the same, it was a headspace thing. Putting on his mask let him lose the connection to _who_ was over him, above him, in him, and instead focus on _what_ they were doing to him. It wasn’t about protecting his body, it was about protecting his heart.

Today, Dean had picked out an emerald green pair of lacy panties with a tiny bow right above his ass crack; it peeked out above the dark jeans and boots he’d wear in the common areas. He went shirtless to show off the matching green leather harness he’d picked out, the straps criss-crossed tightly across his chest and shoulders and had strong steel loops attached at various intervals to aid in all sorts of kinky play. Dean topped off the sexy outfit with a black leather mask—it covered his whole face, custom made with neat holes for his eyes and mouth and trimmed with soft, dark green lace.

Dean knew he looked amazing to the types of people he wanted to attract. That was the point.

Once he was cleaned, prepped, and changed, Dean stashed his bag in one of the provided lockers and checked the key at the front desk. Ready to play, Dean headed down into the club itself.

At first glance, the main, central room of the club looked like pretty much any other nightclub. There was a long bar against one wall, glowing with flashing, dark purple lights and manned by a mullet-sporting barman named Ash. He and Dean had rolled around plenty as younger guys, back when they’d both lived in Kansas. In front of the bar there was a huge dance floor, lit by swirling shafts of dark light that swayed in time to the pulsing beats that Ash controlled from the impressive sound system next to the beer fridge.

Alright, the people actually dancing might have been kicked out of some regular clubs for what they were—or weren’t—wearing, but other than that, it was a pretty normal sight. Dean pushed through the crowds, nodding and smiling as much as his mask would allow as he spotted familiar faces. Little Rock was a pretty big city, and even with the controlled membership of the club, Impact was always incredibly busy. 

On top of the bar, there was a long line of bowls filled with colored rubber wristbands.

Dean held up a hand to flag down Ash for a whiskey shot and a bottle of beer before moving along the line of dishes. Each of the bands held different significance: blue meant you were a Dom and looking to play. Yellow meant you were a sub and looking to socialize only. Pink meant you were looking for male play partners, green meant you were looking for female play partners, purple meant that gender was irrelevant. People picked out what they needed from the rainbow array, sometimes wearing two or three different ones to communicate what they wanted and spark conversation.

There were signs all around reminding members of the code, and it worked really well.

Dean grabbed an orange band—he was a submissive, looking to play, and a pink band—he was certainly looking for a guy tonight, after his encounter with Castiel at Harrington’s.

Ash strolled over with Dean’s drink and to talk for a few minutes. The speakers in the bar were well placed, the loudest music area over the dance floor, fading quieter by the time you stood at the bar to socialize.

The music could still be heard in all of the other rooms of the club, but it was softer, somehow ethereal sounding as it drifted through the speakers in the ceilings. There were large communal rooms full of equipment that could be used by couples or groups, or for organized demonstrations. There were also private rooms, reserved by Doms for planned scenes or encounters with new playmates they met here at Impact. As long as it was safe, sane, and consensual, almost anything went, and the club even provided waivers and mini contracts to sign for pick-up play.

Dean quickly worked his way through the glass of icy whiskey Ash brought him, and they discussed the comings and goings at the club. Ash, too, had heard there was a new guy brought in by Balthazar, and they were both curious.

Soon enough, the whiskey was gone and Dean bid Ash goodbye, heading out onto the dancefloor with his bottle of Texan Star in hand. He swayed his hips, feeling the lace of his panties shift across his skin as it peered out over the top of his jeans, and strode confidently out into the crowd.

Dean was a submissive sexually, but he wasn’t a submissive _person—_ indulging as he did sated a need and balanced him with the person he was playing with. But, outside of the bedroom, or outside of that relationship, Dean was no demure wallflower. He merely thought that it was honest, letting someone know right from the start what they were getting into. So, he strutted his way onto the dancefloor with his head held high, already humming along to the beat.

Years ago, Dean would have said he didn’t like to dance, that it was something he did only to pick up girls. Much older now, he knew that it was also just fun, and he really didn’t care what anyone else thought. He loved the sensations of it: the pounding of the bass as it reverberated through his bones and made his joints buzz, the trickle of sweat that found its way down his spine as he writhed with the masses, switching partners every time someone new caught his eye, and the cold shock of fresh beer against his lips as he raised his other hand above his head, swinging his hips down low. It was a great start to the night, lighting his body up from inside.

It made him feel sexy, and all the eyes that inevitably landed on him made him feel desired.

And that was, after all, the whole point of tonight.

A petite, redheaded woman, an experienced Domme by the way she held herself, came up to Dean and began to dance with him. She looked vaguely familiar, but Dean had a hunch she didn’t attend munches often. The red sequins of her dress itched and scratched their way across the exposed skin of Dean’s chest as they pressed close, entwined like snakes trying to hypnotize each other. Dean was happy to dance with her, but when she leaned in and asked if he’d like more, he politely shook his head and raised his arm, giving his rainbow-coded wristbands a little wave. _Dudes tonight, please._

Unoffended, as most people here tended to be, she smiled as if to say, _“Worth a try, dearie,”_ and drifted off to hunt down fresh prey.

Dean danced alone again, taking the space to let the air cool his body a little, sipping the last of his beer. When he was down to barely a few mouthfuls, he felt someone step up behind him, their body molding to his spine. Hot air glanced over Dean’s ear as they said, deep and throaty, “A new dance partner, perhaps?”

More than on board with the depth of the voice and the firmness of the chest against his shoulder blades, Dean reached a hand up and back to coil around the stranger’s neck as he swung his hips: a clear yes.

The music was slow but heavy, leading Dean’s hips in low circles back against the guy’s pelvis. The brush of fabric that teased Dean’s bare forearm as he tangled fingers into his dance partner’s hair was silky, but the pants suggested leather as Dean’s other hand went back to grasp a tight, muscled thigh. Oh, yes…this would do nicely.

Dean’s heartbeat rose in time to the beat of the music and his body melded to the front of the man behind him. An arm snaked around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer as the friction between them increased. Dean pushed his hips back, and he could feel the other dancer’s interest pressing into his thigh.

 _Fuck._ That was hot.

Dean reached back, sliding his hand up the leather of the guy’s thigh to his crotch, teasing his fingers right past the outline of his growing cock in the fabric. Dean felt the chest behind him swell with a shuddering breath; he ground his ass back, shameless, encouraging. This was exactly what he’d come here for.

When the rumbling voice came up to Dean’s ear again, he was ready.

“Are you open?” the guy asked, his finger’s trailing down Dean’s arm and lifting his wrist, pulling his wristbands into view and thumbing at them hopefully.

“Depends what for,” Dean called back coyly over his shoulder. The Dom was directly behind him, but even so Dean flicked his eyes back and tried to get some measure of the man. In the dim, smoky light of the dance floor, all he got was a shock of dark hair. Looks weren’t really the point here, but dark hair was _not_ a bad start.

“I have a room.”

Twisting his fingers into the other man’s and stepping away from him, Dean pushed through the crowd and pulled the Dom along behind him. Once the music started fading as they got to the edge of the dance floor, he shouted, “Let’s go, then, and talk about what you want, Sir.”

_And see what you look like..._

Not every male Dom wanted to be referred to as ‘ _Sir,’_ of course. But it was a safe bet until told otherwise.

“I’m sure we can come up with something to please us both.”

That voice…it was familiar, almost. But in the darkness of the corridor that Dean pulled them into, he didn’t have a hope of sizing up its owner.

 _I hope he’s handsome,_ Dean considered, before letting the thought drift away. As long as he had the right vibe and attitude, it really didn’t matter for what they were about to do.

“Room thirteen,” the sexy voice said, and they headed off to negotiate.

****

The freckled shoulders of the sexy submissive that Castiel had been lucky enough to snag for the evening—hopefully, at least—were beautifully captivating. Castiel wanted to trace patterns on his skin, using his tongue to dot-to-dot the speckles into teasing pictures of arousal.

None of the playrooms at Impact were large, but they came with an assortment of clean, well-maintained equipment, all with well-tested panic buttons, and a freshly made up, full-sized bed. When they’d arrived, Balthazar had given Castiel a quick tour, and he was pretty impressed with the set-up. It was by no means luxurious, but if Castiel was looking for chocolates on the pillows and lumpy towel swans, he’d have spent the night at the Hilton up the street.

They paused at the door. Castiel reached over the sub’s shoulder, using his thumb to key-press in the numeric code for the door. The code was a semblance of privacy, but it was known by all of the staff and a dungeon monitor could stroll in to check on them any time they saw fit. Before he pushed the door open, Castiel couldn’t help but angle his head down to trail his lips across the gorgeous submissive’s bare shoulder. He had to know how those freckles tasted.

With an audible groan in the near-dark, the guy tilted his head to the side, opening up his neck in a beautiful, breathtaking gesture of submission.

This was heaven.

Castiel worked his lips slowly up the sub’s hot skin to the sweet, fleshy spot where his shoulder met his neck. 

“Fuck,” he hissed lowly, his ass grinding back into Castiel’s already-aroused groin as Castiel let his teeth drag teasingly over his neck.

“Maybe,” Castiel said, half-word, half-groan, into the salt of the other man’s throat. “Or something close to it. In, now.”

With a jolt of enjoyment, the sub raised his head and shoved the door firmly open, cascading soft light over them both, and pulled himself—somewhat reluctantly—away from Castiel’s front. 

Walking into the rented space ahead of Castiel, the sub barely looked around the room—he seemed familiar with it, nicely relaxed, and only gazed about for a brief moment before heading to the table and chair set up off to the side. Castiel assumed that he’d scened here at Impact before; he’d find out for sure in a moment when they started talking. The confident air he gave off indicated that he wasn’t new like Castiel, at least. Well—new to Impact. Castiel was an old hand at the BDSM scene in general, but every place such as this liked to do things a little differently, had their own rules, their own preferences. And that was before you even got into all the different preferences that the members themselves could have.

Castiel was excited, his muscles vibrating and eager as he closed the door. He rarely indulged in pick-up play like this; longer-term attachments had always been his intention, but after the delicious frustration caused by the handsome barista at Harrington’s, he wanted a little control back.

Turning to close the door, Castiel let his anticipation rise. He had a good feeling about this.

The sub was already pulling out a printed piece of paper and a cheap blue ink pen from the small plastic rack that sat on the table. “Negotiation first, then the waiver gets signed,” he said, clearly brooking no argument.

In the quieter air of the playroom, the sub’s deep, rich voice pulled at Castiel’s memory, as if he’d heard it before. He pushed the thought from his mind; if the sub chose to be masked for these activities, perhaps he had his reasons—trying to identify him without invitation didn’t feel right.

Castiel raised a brow at his words, though—not at the sentiment, he wholly agreed with that, but at the self-assured way the sub spoke. Castiel had no need for his play partners to be submissive outside of play, in fact he often preferred it if they weren’t, but he was curious as to what kind of sub this man would be. The sub missed Castiel’s reaction, looking down at the table and running through the waiver quickly, sliding the pen down the paper smoothly beside the print, as if he was checking that nothing had changed.

“Negotiation first,” Castiel agreed, pulling back the opposite chair. He reached down to pinch at the leather of his pants, helping them stretch over his rather ample thighs as he sat down. Day-to-day, Castiel was _far_ from being a leather-clothing type of person, but these events lent themselves to the extra drama. Plus, he knew he looked good; Balthazar was always a reliable critic on that front. Placing his hands on the table, Castiel folded them, waiting for the sub to be done with his perusal of the waiver. “Do you have a name you would prefer me to use while we talk? I’m happy to answer to ‘Sir’ during scenes, but Castiel is fine for negotiation and aftercare.”

Head down over the paper, the sub froze.

Castiel frowned. “You don’t have to give me a real name if—”

“No, t-that’s not—I didn’t—” he said, his head jerking up to look at Castiel, wide-eyed. In the slightly brighter light of the private room, the sub’s irises gleamed the most brilliant, uncommon green.

Familiar.

Before Castiel could say anything else, his potential partner was shoving his chair back with a shockingly loud _screech,_ standing quickly, and shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, fuck—I didn’t know,” he said, an edge of shock and surprise to his voice that Castiel couldn’t, for the life of him, understand.

“Wait!” Castiel said, immediately mirroring the man and pushing back to his feet, accompanied by a perilous _squeak_ from his leather pants. “What’s wrong?”

The sub was shaking his head, already walking past Castiel to get back toward the door.

Castiel wasn’t on board for touching anybody without permission, but even so, he couldn’t keep his hand from darting out to grip at the sub’s arm. He let go as quickly as he’d grabbed, only seeking to get him to turn back for a moment. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s not you,” the sub hurriedly replied, turning back to look at Castiel and—thankfully—stopping. “Not…not like that, anyway.”

“You aren’t making any sense.” Castiel took a slow step toward him, his hands held up like he was approaching a spooked horse. “You seemed on board until I sat down.”

Finally stopping, the masked man let out a sigh that seemed to travel through his shoulders and down his spine. For a moment they just stood. They looked at each other steadily as the musical heartbeat of the club thumped in the distance, not quite covered by the discreet, sexy beat that was pumped into the rooms from the bar. It was a discordant note to the tense quietness between them.

Castiel allowed him to consider…whatever it was that he was considering.

Without another word, the sub raised his hands to the back of his head, beginning to work the buckles that held his beautiful, clearly custom-made, leather mask in place. The motion made the harness around his chest creak in a way that, frankly, Castiel found very attractive.

“You don’t have to—” Castiel began, but a sharp head shake from the man cut him off.

This was all very beyond the norm; if Castiel was like plenty of other Doms, he’d likely have left already. This man was being anything _but_ submissive, and pick-up play arrangements were hardly the time to indulge in punishments. But he stayed; if he’d done something to upset the sub, then he should try to fix it. They weren’t in play yet, this was about him having upset a _person,_ nothing more.

Castiel had always done things his way.

There was a moment where the man hesitated, his fingers holding the mask on even with the straps all unbuckled—but then he ducked his head, leaving the mask in his hands as he looked back up at Castiel...

...As _Dean the beautiful barista_ looked back up at Castiel.

Before he caught himself, Castiel made a short noise of shock. “Damn it,” he said quietly. “I knew your eyes were familiar, and once we got away from the dance floor your voice was…”

Dean’s cheeks were flushed. Castiel wasn’t sure why, until he ducked his eyes down and away, turning the mask in his hands.

“I’ll just go,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see your face until we came in here, or I would have just left you alone.”

“Dean,” Castiel said quickly, reaching out to still the leather as it slowly spun. “I’m the one that should apologize.”

Dean blinked, looking a little more like himself as he shook his head with a sharp laugh. “Not the way I see it. You were pretty damn clear—twice!—that you didn’t want anything to do with me, and yet here I am, ruining your Friday night.”

“No, that’s not—”

Even though Castiel was still talking, Dean turned and reached for the door. “I should get outta your hair. You still have plenty of time to pick up someone to play with.”

Dean’s voice sounded _wretched_ and Castiel was barely thinking as he strode forward after him, slamming his palm down onto the doorframe.

“Will you stop trying to leave and let me _talk!_ ”

Dean froze, turning silently so that his shoulder blades were against the door. Inches from each other, Dean nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Castiel held Dean’s gaze. Electricity crackled between them and Castiel couldn’t tell how much of it was challenge and how much of it was lust.

“Okay, say what you have to say,” Dean said, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, his wide eyes locked on Castiel.

There were soft lines on his face from the seams of the leather touching his skin, and Castiel desperately wanted to reach out and trail his thumb around the one under his eye.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said. His voice came out all gravelly, and he cleared his throat twice before continuing. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings at Harrington’s, and I didn’t want to reject you.”

Dean folded his arms across his front, mask in one hand, causing the metal loops on the emerald leather harness to jingle quietly. Both of his eyebrows went upward. “Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but that’s exactly what you did.”

Leaning into the doorway above Dean’s shoulder, Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “I really _am_ sorry. I would have made a different choice if I’d have had more information, but I didn’t.”

Dean’s skepticism was written in the air by the smooth rise and fall of his eyebrow once more, but he didn’t leave, and as close as they were, Castiel could detect his low, sudden intake of breath.

“I assumed that you wouldn’t want anything to do with _this_ ,” Castiel said, using his free hand to gesture around the room, indicating the freestanding Saint Andrew’s cross near the wall, the metal-posted bed, and the bench, then drifting back to encompass the gorgeous leather harness against Dean’s bare skin, Castiel’s leather pants clinging to his thighs, and the delicate mask that was held tight in Dean’s hands, pressed between them. Returning his eyes to Dean, he added quietly, “I’ve had potential relationships go immediately south because of being a Dom, Dean. So I’ve limited myself to meeting people this way, so that they already know, to avoid the discussion.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence between them, and the quiet, sexy music seemed to get louder. Sensing that Dean needed a little more convincing, Castiel tilted his head, trying to catch his eyes.

“Dean, I wanted to go out with you. I was cursing the fact that I hadn’t met you somewhere else—met you here.”

A low huff of air escaped Dean’s lungs, and something not far from a pout shifted across his lips. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said, but—to Castiel’s immense relief—his voice now sounded more playful than hurt. 

Holding Dean’s gaze unflinchingly, Castiel tilted his head just a fraction, enjoying the way Dean’s eyes followed the motion. Then he leaned forward, hovering his lips right above Dean’s ear as he asked, “Are you being a brat because you want to leave, or because you think I’ll like it?”

It was a bold move, perhaps, but no bolder than how they’d ended up here in the first place, Castiel figured. He had nothing to lose.

Dean’s small gulp was audible, and his voice rough when he came back with a question of his own. “Say that you mean that, that you were interested in the diner—what about now? What if I didn’t want to leave?”

A tingle of pleasure and relief ran up Castiel’s spine. _Thank God for that._

“Then I have things to ask you,” Castiel said calmly. He maintained his closeness to Dean, seeing no reason to reduce it now they were back on this path. “What experience do you have? Are you familiar with the traffic light system? What are your physical boundaries for touch, what is your pain tolerance, how is your health? Any breathing issues, daily medications?”

Dean gave a considering hum. “Thorough, Sir. You know what to ask—I like that.”

Castiel nodded just once, slowly, as he pulled back from Dean just enough to see his face when he answered.

“I have plenty of experience with this, Sir. Years. Started at nineteen. I’m fine using red, yellow, and green, and I use ‘Impala’ as an additional safe word. I don’t have any physical boundaries or triggers, though I’m definitely not as flexible as I was ten years ago. My pain tolerance is moderately high, though nothing on some of the women I’ve seen. Health is good—no asthma, nothing like that, no meds like blood thinners that would make suspension a bad idea, if you’re into that.”

Unable to help a wolfish grin, Castiel bit his bottom lip. “Very.”

“Good to know,” Dean near-whispered in return, their eyes locked.

“Tell me your two favorite kinks, so that I can choose between them for tonight.”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes flicked over to the bench, then moved back to Castiel. There was a beautiful flush to his cheeks that had Castiel shifting in the leather of his pants. “That we can do here, tonight, in this kind of scenario…spanking,” he said. “I like to be paddled, too. And bondage; gag me, suspend me, whatever you want. There’s more, but for here…”

God, Castiel would have loved to suspend him, to take the time to tie him up like an overwrapped gift, wrapped in multiple tiers of paper, and only peel back the layers when each one became cum-soaked and sticky. But here, for a simple scene of the kind that pick-up play like this necessitated…

Castiel’s eyes flicked to the provided spanking bench. He could certainly make that work.

“Very well,” he said. Unable to help himself, Castiel leaned in and nuzzled his nose slowly up the side of Dean’s face near his ear, barely stopping himself from nipping at the stubbly bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Then once we’ve signed the waiver, you will take off your jeans and position yourself over the bench for me. The harness stays on. Understand?”

Dean’s breath was ragged. “Yes, Sir. D-do you want me to tell you anything else?”

“There are certain questions I always ask,” Castiel said, keeping his voice just as low as Dean’s. He could feel his own warm breath bouncing back off Dean’s ear in the tight space next to the door, and he liked the heat.

“Yeah? More questions?” Dean asked, his body straining between the wood and Castiel.

“Oh, yes,” Castiel rumbled back, pressing the teeth of his grin into the side of Dean’s neck. “Questions like, are you seeing anyone? Is their name Earl, or Bubba? Is Earl the jealous type? Does Bubba have a gun?”

Dean gave out a low, sexy chuckle. “Just worried about interruptions, or did you plan on letting me flirt with you over coffee again?”

Castiel reached up sharply, wrapping his fingers firmly around Dean’s jaw as he growled, “Answer me. I would rather you be honest because I don’t like to share. It’s rare that I even come to a place like this with the intention to pick up a stranger, Dean…but someone got me very riled up today.”

At Castiel’s suggestive tone, Dean let out a breathy, _“Oh.”_

Pulling away again, deliberately stepping back so as to allow some cool air and cool headedness between them, Castiel stepped over to the table. He took a moment to drag his eyes up and down Dean, taking in the beautiful man before him all over again. It felt different, now that he knew that it was _Dean_ , handsome barista Dean, right here in front of him, dressed so temptingly, offering himself in this way. Gorgeous…so beautiful. Better than Castiel deserved. He turned to face Dean again, one hand resting on the edge of the table, fingertips on paper. “Well?”

“There’s no one,” Dean said, taking deliberate steps forward as he spoke. When they were almost chest to chest, he tossed his mask onto the chair and grabbed the pen without even looking at it, then scrawled heavily across the bottom of the waiver that sat—right where Dean had left it—atop the table. “Only one person has caught my eye since I moved to Charming Acres.”

Dean held the pen up in front of his chest, and the foot or so of space between the two of them tingled with possibility as Castiel reached to take it from him.

“I have one request before I sign,” Castiel said evenly. He was grateful that when he was with someone like Dean, he had the ability to put a calm, confident front over his own emotions, because nerves shook through him and settled in his stomach as he asked, “A date. If this goes well, I want to have dinner with you tomorrow.”

Stepping closer still, Dean’s eyes flicked down to Castiel’s lips, wanting and obvious. They were practically touching all along their bodies, one of Dean’s boots between Castiel’s where he was slightly angled toward the table, the silk of Castiel’s shirt agonizingly close to brushing against Dean’s bare chest.

Without looking away from his face, Dean’s fingers came up to wrap around Castiel’s hand, guiding his pen down to the paper.

“Deal,” Dean whispered throatily.

Castiel scribbled his name, unseeing, as he reached out his other hand to coil around the back of Dean’s neck and pull him in. Their mouths clashed, hot and wet, and the pen rolled to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Kissing Castiel was like trying to take a breath in a tornado. Dean couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t believe that a clash of fate somehow had him mouth-to-mouth with the hottest man he’d seen in years, the very same one who had rejected him out of the gate.

But Dean understood, now. It wasn’t that Castiel didn’t want Dean or hadn’t responded to his advances—like he’d said, it was because of _this._ This underlying dynamic that a person just couldn’t always spot, out there in the wild. If Castiel wanted a relationship that met his needs in this way, as well as day-to-day…picking up cocky local diner employees wasn’t the way to go.

Dean got it.

And fuck, was he glad it’d turned out this way.

Castiel’s lips were large and pillowy, wholly commanding in their softness. He wasn’t shy with his tongue; his kisses were _energetic_ , like a hurricane whipping around Dean, buffeting him back against the edge of the table. Castiel kissed with his entire body, and Dean’s only defense against the assault was to gasp air in deeply, filling his tingling lungs.

Too soon, the heated kiss was over. Remembering Castiel’s instructions, Dean went straight to removing his jeans. Castiel responded with an approving nod and sat down on the empty chair at the table to remove his leather boots. Dean’s footwear joined Castiel’s under the table, and Dean displayed himself before Castiel for a moment, quivering under his gaze.

The lace underwear that Dean had picked out for the evening were a lush emerald green, the fabric soft against his skin, even across the growing chub that kissing Castiel had quickly brought to life. Dean knew full well that the matching leather harness that cocooned his shoulders and ribs brought out every freckle on his skin, and he could tell from Castiel’s open, hungry expression that his Dom greatly approved. Preening a little, Dean turned toward the bench and swung his hips deliberately as he sauntered toward it—knowing without a doubt that Castiel’s eyes would be caught by the little bow that sat above his ass crack, bouncing jauntily with his movements.

Castiel had been handsome in the coffee shop, but he was deadly tonight—those fucking leather pants would be Dean’s end. They hid nothing. If Dean went out of this life trapped between those breathtaking thighs, he’d be satisfied with his time.

_If I had a type, it would be you._

Reaching the angled spanking bench, Dean paused to look back over his shoulder. “How would you like me, Sir?”

Castiel’s gaze was, as predicted, entirely engaged with Dean’s pert butt cheeks. But, at the question, he reluctantly dragged his eyes up and stood from his seat at the table. With his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, Castiel gave a devilish smile and lowered his hands to his belt, the buckle jangling as he instructed, “Laying along the bench, palms flat on the floor, fully supported.”

With a _crack_ that went straight past Dean’s dick and deep into his core, Castiel whipped his belt out from his pants with one hand.

 _Oh, holy fuck,_ Dean thought helplessly. He wished Castiel would use that leather belt on him. He wouldn’t, most likely, not like this—not in this kind of scenario, their first time playing together. Likely he’d be cautious, and their scene would be mild.

And Dean was okay with that. It was better, safer, that way. But hell, he wanted to feel that leather bite into his skin and sear him red with Castiel’s want.

Pulling himself back together before he drooled down his chin, Dean turned back to the bench. It was simple—a black padded bench that raised at an angle, with supports for knees and hands, providing a variety of position opportunities. As Castiel had instructed, Dean lay down the length of it so that his head was hanging down. He put his knees on the pads slightly under himself and stretched down to splay his hands on the floor, so that his ass was presented up in the air, his stomach supported by the padding and his legs slightly apart.

It was actually pretty comfy—the position itself wasn’t supposed to be the cause of the discomfort, here.

Dean heard Castiel padding barefoot around to where his head hung, heard the creak of his leather pants as he crouched down in front of Dean. With two fingers outstretched, Castiel lifted Dean’s chin. Drawing his eyes up to meet Castiel’s would make Dean’s neck ache if he held it for long in this position, but Dean couldn’t give a damn if he tried. The way that Castiel gazed at him was like a drug and his whole body was begging for a hit—in more ways than one.

Castiel pushed his thumb roughly into the corner of Dean’s mouth, watching as it disappeared in between his lips with a tiny smile. “You’re so pretty, boy,” he murmured—and somehow his voice was even deeper than usual, how the fuck was Dean supposed to cope with that?

Dean let out a tiny moan around Castiel’s thumb—he hadn’t even _touched_ Dean yet, but somehow, he was already hard and he could feel his own heartbeat against the padding of the bench.

As a younger man, Dean would have balked at being described as pretty. He was _handsome_ , dammit, blow-job lips be damned. Right then, though, he’d have let Castiel call him anything under the sun if he just kept looking at him that way.

Dean coiled his tongue around Castiel’s thumb within his mouth, showing off a little, sucking on it with a happy hum. At Castiel’s resulting smile, Dean smirked coyly around him and pressed his taste buds into the ridges of Castiel’s fingerprint. His skin tasted salty and warm.

“Good boy,” Castiel rumbled, low and heavy. “If you’re very good, you can show off your skills on my cock, later.”

Dean whined. He whined like a wanton little bitch and he didn’t even _care._

At the sound, Castiel gave a pleased chuckle—the sound was deep and rumbling, like the purr of Baby’s engine, and it immediately became one of Dean’s two favorite sounds in the world.

“Keep sucking,” Castiel said, “while you unbutton my shirt.”

 _With pleasure, Sir,_ Dean said with his eyes. He was dying to get his hands on Castiel _somehow_ , just to feel his skin under the pads of his fingers.

The silk of Castiel’s deep blue dress shirt was cool and slick to the touch, shifting sexily over his impressively firm pectorals as Dean slid his hands across them. He kept working at Castiel’s thumb, curling the tip of his tongue over the end of it, imagining the taste of precum mixed with the warm skin. He kept his eyes forward as Castiel lowered himself to his knees, shuffling closer to the bench so that Dean could work the buttons without straining his arms too much.

Dean took his time—he wasn’t an idiot, he was going to savor every second of this. The buttons were small and black, and Dean used the fingers of both hands to push them deliberately though the holes, one by one. Once he’d reached the bottom, tugging the last crumpled few inches of shirt out of Castiel’s pants where he’d had it neatly tucked, Dean reached back up and tugged lightly at his collar—a silent, mouth-occupied request.

“Yes, take it off,” Castiel said, understanding.

Dean let his fingers brush entirely unnecessarily over Castiel’s skin as he pushed the shirt from his chest, letting the fabric bunch up around his wrists as he caressed his shoulders. Castiel smiled at the sensation, his eyes drooping in pleasure.

Castiel shook his arm out of one sleeve, revealing the full acreage of his tanned, strong chest to Dean. He was well-muscled; clearly he worked out—lifted weights or ran—shirtless, something that would account for both the firmness of his body and the uninterrupted golden hue of his skin. He had the barest smattering of chest hair, the odd silvery strand in amongst the dark only making his body even closer to perfection for Dean. Whereas Dean was subtly freckled all over, Castiel had barely a blemish maring his skin. There were a few tiny lines or dots here or there, hardly noticeable, but the only mark that stood out was a dark freckle just northwest of his right nipple—it cried out for Dean’s tongue to taste it, so much so that he got distracted from sucking on Castiel’s thumb.

Luckily, Castiel began to shake his shirt from his other arm, requiring him to tug his thumb from between Dean’s lips before he seemed to notice that Dean had stopped.

Silk shirt forgotten on the floor, Castiel reached forward and grabbed at the shoulder-strap of Dean’s harness, tightening his fingers around the leather and dragging him upwards to push his tongue possessively into Dean’s mouth once more.

Dean’s back arched away from the bench, curling up in a pose he rarely encountered outside of the gym (which he avoided whenever he could). He moaned into Castiel’s mouth, greedy for the taste of him, and the low ache of the stretch only added to the feeling of contentment building in Dean’s body.

_Perfect, this is perfect…_

After far too short a time, Castiel retreated. He carefully lowered Dean’s chest back to the bench before letting go of the harness, so that Dean wouldn’t smack back down onto it when he was released. Considerate.

Wordlessly, Castiel rose. As he walked down the side of the bench and behind Dean, Castiel kept one hand lightly on Dean’s back the whole time—trailing his fingers over the plane of Dean’s shoulder blade, then gliding his nails so gently down Dean’s spine that Dean let out a sigh.

It was good practice, Dean knew, to try and touch a sub who couldn’t see you—particularly one who you didn’t know well. It helped to ground them and reassure them that even out of sight, their Dom’s control was absolute.

But this felt different, felt _intimate,_ and it had Dean melting into the bench, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

When Castiel reached the back of the bench, Dean felt the single hand that had been touching him become two, one on each of his hips. Castiel wasn’t holding tight, rather his fingers shifted gently over the hem of Dean’s panties, as if he was considering his next move; Dean wished he could look back over his shoulder and check, but he hadn’t been given permission to move or look. So he stayed still, eyes squeezed shut, enjoying the sensation of hands that weren’t his own—for a long time, Impact had been the only place where Dean had felt that. It was just easier.

“What should I do with these pretty things, hmm?” Castiel said thoughtfully, and Dean felt his fingers ghosting across the lace covering his cheeks. “Any ideas, boy?”

“Whatever you want, Sir,” Dean said. He felt breathless, his lungs seeming stifled with hot air just from Castiel’s delicate touches. “Anything.”

“Anything?” Castiel asked, and Dean could picture his tiny, smirking smile, pulling back just enough to reveal a small slither of perfectly white teeth. “Well, isn’t that an invitation.”

Dean remained silent, focused only on Castiel’s hands.

“I won’t fuck you tonight,” Castiel said—a calm observation, like he was taking about plants growing or paint drying—as he stroked his fingers firmly down Dean’s ass crack, through the lace, taking a slow journey down across his taint to reach his balls. “Though, to be clear, I certainly want to.”

Feeling a sudden pang of loss for something he hadn’t even expected, Dean let out a quiet sigh.

“Not here,” Castiel said, with an audible smirk. “Not the first time we’ve played. I know plenty of people do that, but I don’t, not until we have clear tests and something far more substantial than that flimsy waiver, if things go well and we take that route.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Good,” Castiel said. “I wouldn’t want you to think that this”—his hand slipped around Dean’s balls until they sat in his palm, his fingers curling up towards Dean’s hard cock, and he squeezed—“isn’t extremely tempting.”

Dean let out a grunt at the pressure, his eyes opening involuntarily as he bit down on his lip. All he could see was the black-painted wall and the end of the bed, with its sturdy metal posts at each corner. He imagined being spread out on that bed, tied to immobility, with Castiel filling up all of his spaces, body and mind. Yes, as long as tonight went well—and tomorrow night, if that date happened—then that was one-hundred-percent what he wanted.

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean gasped out as Castiel released him, his hands returning to the meat of Dean’s ass.

“Instead,” Castiel said, still sounding for all intents and purposes like a phone-sex operator reading a grocery list (that _voice,_ Jesus…), “I think we’ll begin with a little spanking, just my hand, and see how much you can take.”

Totally unashamed—he already had his ass in the air, after all—Dean let out a low, throaty whine. “That sounds awesome, Sir. Please, I want that.”

“Good boy,” Castiel responded quietly, his fingers tracing the lace that bridged the gap between Dean’s cheeks, pressing it down into him lightly with the edge of his thumb. “How many can you usually manage?”

“A lot,” Dean said, unable to help a grin, even if Castiel couldn’t see him. “As much as you think I deserve, Sir.”

There was a smile in Castiel’s voice as he said, “Well, now, that is lovely news. I’m going to leave these sweet little panties on, too…Maybe if you can take it hard enough, I can see the imprint of the lace on your skin when I’m done.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean agreed, a tiny shiver travelling down through his outstretched arms to where his palms rested on the floor. He really, really hoped that Castiel would spank him that hard.

There was a pause, and Dean felt the soft pressure of what might have been a kiss to his tailbone. “Count for me, beautiful,” Castiel instructed, his breath hot across the hem of Dean’s underwear.

“Fuck,” Dean let out softly, squeezing his eyes shut again in desperation. “Yes, Sir,” he agreed again, doing his best to hold still and be good so that he would finally, finally deserve Castiel’s hands on him.

The first smack came out of nowhere, a test, more than anything. It wasn’t especially hard, just Castiel warming up the skin on the fleshy curve of Dean’s right cheek, but the satisfying _crack_ sound of flesh against flesh resounded through the room.

Dean let out a sharp, grunting, “One!”

Thanks to years of experience with this, Dean could guess—with fair reliability, he thought—that Castiel was cupping his hand, keeping his fingers together to cause more of a deep _thump_ sensation than a bright sting. Before the sensation had a chance to subside, Castiel’s hand returned, massaging deeply, pushing the feeling out into Dean’s muscles; prep work, more than a part of the spanking itself—but deliciously pleasurable nonetheless.

“Color?”

“Green, Sir,” Dean replied eagerly.

Another smack came down, Castiel’s hand hitting flesh and pushing _up_ Dean’s body, a rippling sensation travelling from the low, fleshy part of his ass right up to the top.

“Two!” Dean called out, his own voice sounding thick to his ears.

“Do you prefer a thud or a sting?” Castiel asked conversationally. “Deeper or sharper?”

“A mixture,” Dean answered diplomatically, “but a sting is real good, especially toward the end.”

“Marks?”

“Please, Sir.”

Castiel knew exactly what he was doing; knowing that Dean _wanted_ to bruise, wanted to feel it the next day (or for days to come, if he was lucky), Castiel concentrated his hits in similar areas, repeatedly striking the flesh as it began to heat and tingle.

Dean relaxed into it, grunting and gasping as Castiel’s big hands doled out smack after smack. Dean could feel every finger, could tell that Castiel was working mostly with the palm of his hand and his fingers together—a motion that caused a deep, pounding sensation that pushed Dean’s hips into the bench and that he felt in his bones—interspersed with sharper, wide-fingered strikes that slapped brightly against Dean’s skin and caused a fiery, stinging burn.

Delirious at the sensation, Dean became pliant and soft on the bench. The only solid part of him left was the hot bar of his leaking cock jammed between his stomach and the padding.

Occasionally Castiel would pause between strikes, digging his fingers in to massage at the globes of Dean’s ass and pull his panties this way and that, _pinging_ the lace onto his skin and making Dean hiss.

“Fuck, Sir…” Dean mumbled down into the end of the bench, his eyes squeezed tightly shut with tears pricking at them after a particularly sharp smack. “Feels so good, Sir.”

He felt high, his body buzzing with the blurred lines between pleasure and pain that called him back to _this_ , this position, this habit, this _need_ , again and again. Time didn’t seem to exist, the turning of Dean’s Earth no longer split by minutes and seconds but by the hollow spaces between one impact and the next.

“How many is that, boy?” Castiel asked. Dean felt Castiel’s bare chest press up against the back of his thighs as he leaned over, pressing a trail of kisses into Dean’s sweating spine that led back down to him biting at the pinnacle of his butt in the air.

“Shit”—Dean groaned in surprise at the biting—“thirty-seven, Sir.”

“You’re being so good for me,” Castiel rumbled, squeezing at Dean’s thighs and causing another wave of heat to spread up across his ass. “I’m so pleased with you—honestly, I was half-expecting you to be a brat, when I first saw you dancing.”

“Oh, I can be,” Dean admitted, grinning down into the bench. “But you”— _make me want to be good for you—_ “spanked it out of me for today, Sir. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

Castiel gave a somewhat disbelieving hum. “Not at all, though that’s its own fun, on occasion. But this, this beautiful, pliant submission…this is a precious gift.”

His hands tightening on the back of Dean’s thighs, Castiel leaned down and licked a stripe up along the hem of Dean’s panties, wetting the lace as his cool, damp tongue claimed the hot, stinging skin.

Dean yelped, and Castiel let out a low chuckle. “Beautiful,” he said, pressing the word into Dean’s skin.

Rock hard and desperate for relief, Dean strained to rock his hips and press his cock into the bench.

“No.” Castiel commanded, his hand coming down in a deep, unexpected strike. “None of that until I say so.”

“Thirty-eight!” Dean cried out automatically, his voice ragged. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Color?”

“Green, very green.”

Castiel’s amazing blows rained down again until Dean’s thighs were shaking, his skin burning—it almost felt thin from the sting, as if he could feel his own heartbeat in the way his ass _throbbed_ and pulsed with dull, buzzing pain.

Fuck, Castiel was so good at this. Dean would do anything, anything at all, to get to have this again. He moaned, low and delirious, pressing his sweaty cheek into the bench, and opened his mouth to count—blinking and fuzzy, Dean realized he’d lost his place. “Fif—fifty—” he began.

Castiel’s hand stilled, his palm gliding softly over the skin and down across the backs of Dean’s trembling thighs. “Having trouble?” he asked.

“I—I’m sorry, Sir,” Dean choked out.

“No need to apologize.” Castiel sounded amused. “That just tells me that we’ve reached our limit, for now.”

With Castiel behind Dean and out of sight, it was a total surprise a moment later when Castiel blew cold air across Dean’s burning cheeks.

 _“FUCK!”_ Dean yelled, shivering at the sensation.

Castiel made a teasing tutting noise. “Your mouth,” he said quietly, “should be put to much better use.”

Direct and to the point, Castiel’s hand came down under Dean to squeeze at his cock, wrapping his fingers tightly around him through the lace. Dean gave out a relieved groan. God, he needed—he just really needed to—

Castiel’s other hand trailed to Dean’s taint, pressing sharply in and _up_ behind his balls.

With a shout, Dean’s hips jerked up from the bench.

_Holy fuck, shit, son of a—_

Castiel was relentless, slipping his hand within the panties to fly over Dean’s cock as he pushed and pressed against Dean’s prostate from outside. The sensation, coupled with the glowing, tingling, flying sensation that Dean’s ass had him feeling throughout his whole body, was enough to have him racing towards a massive orgasm.

Unable to form coherent sentences, Dean let out a long, toneless yell, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers scrabbling against the floor.

“Sir—Sir!” Dean panted desperately. “I—I’m— _fuck—_ Sir!”

“Yes?” Castiel asked, his voice a shit-eating grin even without the visual. “What was that, boy?”

Dean had tears streaming down his face, and he’d rarely felt so _happy_ and so aroused his life. “Sir, please,” he managed to beg.

Castiel’s hand sped up, squeezed tighter, twisted in the space Dean’s raised hips were creating between his stomach and the bench. He tore Dean’s orgasm from him like his hand was a weapon, destroying any semblance of control Dean had over his own body.

“Fuck!” Dean gasped, feeling his cock throb and twitch, the pressure in his core starting to buzz outwards.

“Come, now,” Castiel commanded.

Dean didn’t _remember_ orgasming, but the stream of hot come that ran down the bench and stuck his stomach to it was pretty clear evidence. Hips twitching, thighs trembling, Dean gasped down toward the floor.

“Thank you,” he panted, his voice rasping. “Thank you, Sir.”

Much gentler hands caressed Dean’s burning skin. “I wish you could see how absolutely beautiful this sight is,” Castiel said, awe in his voice.

“Take a picture,” Dean said, his words a little slurred as the thumping in his chest slowly calmed. “I don’t mind.”

There was a pause while—Dean assumed—Castiel did just that. Somewhere off near the table at the back there was a crinkling noise that Dean couldn’t place. Then Castiel’s feet appeared between Dean’s hands, and a hand wrapped around the leather shoulder-strap of Dean’s harness once more, pulling him firmly upward.

Spine bent, Dean looked up at Castiel’s face. His eyes were wide and shining, the blue in them reduced by arousal to a thin ring around his blown pupils. A flush of excitement glowed across his neck, and he looked so _pleased_ as he looked down at Dean, so _proud_ , that Dean’s heart picked up its pace all over again.

“You did very well for me,” Castiel rasped, his voice rough with need. The hand not occupied holding Dean up by his harness came to Dean’s cheek, caressing it gently before he ran the pad of his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip. “Would you like a reward, boy?”

_Fuck yes!_

“Yes, please, Sir,” Dean said, any thoughts of discomfort at his sticky stomach, aching neck and stinging ass entirely replaced by an urgent, desperate desire to—

“Would you like my cock now? Do you think you’ve earned it?”

 _Son of a bitch, yes. Please let me blow you,_ Dean thought, knowing that his eyes were wide and eager. “I would love your cock, Sir, if you think I deserve it.”

“Alright,” Castiel agreed, his tiny smile feeling like the greatest gift Dean had ever received. “Show me how well you can take it, beautiful.”

Cautiously, Dean raised his hands—he hadn’t specifically been told that he could touch, could open Castiel’s pants, but he thought that was what Castiel probably wanted. Still, Dean didn’t assume.

“May I touch you please, Sir?” he asked, his hands hovering above the zipper that faced Dean at eye level, barely containing the bulge of Castiel’s waiting erection.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Good boy for asking—very good boy,” he added, pushing his thumb into the corner of Dean’s mouth.

This time, Castiel didn’t command Dean to prove his skills by sucking on his digits, or tease him by running his fingers over his tongue; he just used his thumb to hold Dean’s mouth open, widening his jaw.

“You’re going to unzip my pants and take out my cock,” Castiel instructed. “You’re going to take a condom from my back pocket and put it on me. Then, I’m going to fuck your mouth.”

Dean couldn’t speak clearly with Castiel’s thumb in his mouth, but he tried, nodding as he said, “Yes, Sir.”

The leather pants were tight, pulled even more so by the thick line of Castiel’s erection at the front of them. It pleased Dean to see that Castiel had been aroused by what they were doing, that turning Dean’s ass red had a substantial effect not just on him, but on the handsome Dom, too. Reaching around to Castiel’s back pocket, Dean slipped his hand inside as instructed, and his fingers quickly found the rough edge of a condom wrapper.

That had been the crinkle earlier, the back of Dean’s mind registered. He said nothing though, intent on his task. Castiel released Dean’s jaw so that he could hold the foil between his teeth and use both hands to undo his straining pants. Dean made quick work of the button and zipper that were holding back Castiel’s cock.

Castiel had gone commando, nothing between his bare skin and the leather of his pants. Dean had no idea why that was so damn hot, but he let out a throaty gasp as Castiel’s dick sprang eagerly free. Dean pushed Castiel’s pants down his thighs a few inches, but he made no effort to step out of them.

Dean could hear the smirk in Castiel’s voice as he asked, “Something pleasing?”

Dean moistened his lips as he removed the condom wrapper from his mouth and tore open the edge. “No underwear, Sir,” he explained. His own voice was husky to his ears as he double checked he had the condom the right way up. “I didn’t expect that. But it’s really hot.”

“Making assumptions, hmm?” Castiel said, his tone more playful than truly reprimanding. “Think you know a lot about what boring, suited accountants have under their clothes?”

Before he reached for Castiel’s cock, Dean chanced a look up to meet Castiel’s eyes as he replied matter of factly, “You aren’t a boring accountant, Sir. You’re an incredibly _hot_ accountant.”

The deep, low chuckle that Dean was already in love with sounded again, and Dean felt a strange flutter of pride deep in his chest at having caused it.

“Flatterer,” Castiel said, cutting off any response from Dean by shoving his thumb back into Dean’s mouth, pushing his jaw wide. “Hurry up,” he commanded. “I want you—watching you submit so beautifully for me has me on edge already.”

Happy to oblige, Dean rolled the condom down over Castiel’s erection. His cock was thick. Dean’s mouth watered in anticipation, and even knowing that it wouldn’t happen that night didn’t stop him from wanting to know what it’d feel like to be split open by such a beautiful, fat dick.

Once the condom was in place, Dean fisted his hand around Castiel’s length and stroked experimentally, looking up at Castiel from beneath his eyelashes.

“Want it?” Castiel asked breathlessly, nudging his cock up against Dean’s bottom lip.

Sam might have been the Winchester with the famed puppy dog eyes, but Dean could pull out an impressive version of his own when he was in certain situations. “Please, Sir,” he mumbled around Castiel’s merciless thumb.

“Very well,” Castiel growled, sliding forward just the inch it took to rest the tip of himself on Dean’s willing tongue.

Dean cursed the condom—wholly necessary, of course, but he wanted nothing more than to taste the watery tang of precum on his tongue, instead of the slightly greasy taste of a Trojan Magnum XL.

Castiel’s fingers curled under the edge of Dean’s jaw, possessive, and Dean’s heart rattled in his chest as he looked up at him, waiting for permission.

“Use your tongue,” Castiel said, winking so hard that half of his face crinkled.

Dean needed no further encouragement. He pressed a kiss to the flushed head of Castiel’s dick before wrapping his lips tight around it, sucking firmly on the tip before he inched down, straining forward on the bench so that he could rest half of Castiel in his mouth. He worked the underside of Castiel’s cock, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the head with the tip of his tongue. 

Above him, Castiel let out throaty gasps of pleasure and encouragement, and the hand that didn’t have its thumb hooked into Dean’s mouth came to his hair, tugging and pulling and pushing it back in time with Dean’s licks.

It didn’t take long for Castiel to want more. As Dean inhaled through his nose, relaxing around the thick cock as best he could, Castiel pushed in further.

Dean whined and hummed, fluttering his eyelashes as he groaned up at Castiel. His neck was at an awkward angle and the curving of his back that bringing his mouth to Castiel’s waist-height caused was beginning to create a dull ache, but the sensations hardly registered against the warm soreness of his ass and thighs, and the fantastically full feeling of a dick in his mouth.

Tightening his grip on Dean’s hair, Castiel snapped his hips forward.

Gagging helplessly, Dean looked unerringly up at Castiel, huffing in air through his nose and trying to force his throat to relax and take it.

“Beautiful noises,” Castiel murmured, thrusting forward again, directing Dean’s head with a pull on his crown. “Can you take it, boy? Can you handle a big cock fucking your mouth?”

Dean moaned, closing his eyes for just a moment as Castiel fucked into him. He loved this—this feeling of being used, of being the sole cause of someone else’s pleasure, of someone _taking_ their pleasure from him. It was really all a carefully constructed scenario, of course; Castiel wasn’t taking anything Dean hadn’t already given him the power and permission to have. But the feel of it, the thrilling sense of ownership that he’d willingly handed to the man above him…it was heady and addictive, and it sent Dean to a place that nothing else could.

It was a kind of perfection. Fucked up perfection, the kind Dean wouldn’t ever tell anyone about if they didn’t already understand…but his perfection.

Dean floated within his own body, warm and fuzzy and content even as his throat took a pounding, the head of Castiel’s hard cock smacking against the roof of Dean’s mouth, bumping back across his soft palette. He sucked and groaned, sloppy and wet.

“Look at me,” Castiel ground out through his teeth, the sound of his voice even deeper and more gravelly than it had been, the rumbling bass causing sparks of arousal in Dean that his spent cock wanted in on but couldn’t quite manage. Castiel bit his lip, letting out a groan, before shifting his hand from the back of Dean’s head to the front, cupping the bolt of his jaw. His thumb rubbed softly across Dean’s cheekbone as he murmured, “Those pretty green eyes…I want to see them.”

Dean didn’t blink, giving Castiel his whole focus as he pounded into Dean’s face.

Body sore, throat overfilled and throbbing, all Dean could do was breathe and enjoy.

A tremble began to shake its way through Castiel’s thighs, and Dean knew he was close to coming, to taking what his body desired. Dean shifted his hands on the armrests of the bench and brought one up to Castiel’s thigh, squeezing it for leverage; steadying himself further and holding himself even more solidly for Castiel’s pleasure.

Castiel groaned in appreciation—then sudden and sharp, with no warning at all, he bent over at the waist and reached out, stretching his arm up Dean’s back.

Dean let out a yell around Castiel’s cock as his ass _burned,_ a solid handful of it grabbed by Castiel. His fingers dug into the throbbing flesh of Dean’s cheek, still hot and tingling from the spanking, and he _pulled_ himself into Dean’s mouth.

Buried in Castiel’s abdomen, Dean let out a breathless grunt, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as Castiel’s cock desperately twitched inside his mouth.

Dean felt the warmth as Castiel filled the condom. He wished he could taste it.

Shaking, Castiel gave Dean’s ass one final slap, almost a soft tap, before pulling back. He wrapped his fingers tight around the condom as he pulled out, not letting it slip or spill.

Dean gagged at the slow sensation of Castiel pulling out of his abused throat, and then again at the feeling of air hitting his suddenly empty mouth. He flopped down against the bench, finally letting his head hang, the ache of his position hitting him abruptly.

It took only a second for Castiel to tie off the condom and deposit it in the provided trash can, then he was back, tucking himself back into his pants. Those fucking leather pants. He knelt, cupping Dean’s face in his hands, bringing his head up once more.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, his voice much softer, though still firm. “We’re all done, okay? Let’s get you up, onto the bed, and let’s get you some water.”

****

Castiel saw the shudder that travelled through Dean’s muscles as he started to stand, nodding jerkily. It looked like speaking was hard, but Dean managed to croak out, “Okay, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Dean grimaced as he awkwardly clambered off the bench—that had to be unpleasant. The bench padding was sticky with sweat and Dean’s own come, and Dean’s thighs trembled as he put weight back on his legs. Castiel was right there; he guided Dean to the bed with an arm around his waist and had him lay down on his front. Once he was sure Dean was secure and wouldn’t roll or flop off of the bed, he quickly wiped the bench down with the antibacterial wipes that Impact provided for immediate clean up. They’d sanitize the room entirely when Castiel checked out.

That done, Castiel went straight back to the side of the bed with a bottle of water from the tiny fridge in the corner.

“Here,” he said, uncapping it and offering it to Dean. “Can you drink some of this, please?”

Dean grunted as he rolled onto his side, but he reached out and took the bottle. While he drank a few deep gulps, Castiel reached under the bed and pulled out the duffle bag that he’d stashed there when he’d first checked in and paid to rent the room.

Unzipping the overnight bag, he rooted around until he found the small zippered pouch that he kept a couple of lotion bottles and such in. Not every sub enjoyed being spanked, but Castiel certainly enjoyed _doing_ it, and so he was well-prepared for impact-play-specific aftercare.

Sitting carefully on the dark sheets at the edge of the mattress, Castiel opened the pouch and pulled out a plastic bottle of oil with a dropper, and a small tube.

Dean raised a questioning eyebrow over the half-drunk water bottle.

“Vitamin E oil and arnica cream,” Castiel said in explanation, holding up each bottle. “Is that alright? You don’t have any allergies or anything?”

Dean shook his head. “No, Sir.”

“Just Castiel is fine, now. If you like.”

Dean looked at him for a moment, quietly studying, before his eyes dropped down to the bed. “In a minute,” he said quietly, “if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Castiel nodded as he spoke, even though Dean wasn’t looking up. Some submissives preferred to keep using “ _Sir”_ or “ _Master”_ or whatever suited them, all the way through aftercare until they parted from their Dom. Others did not. Whatever Dean wanted was fine by him. “That’s fine. Whenever you’re ready. And the lotion—may I?”

Dean seemed relieved as he looked back up, nodding. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Castiel reached out a hand to take the water bottle from Dean and put it on the floor. “On your front again, then,” he instructed.

Dean settled his face down into the pillow, tucking his arms underneath it so that he was stretched out on the mattress. He was red from the backs of his knees up to the bottom of his kidneys; Castiel hadn’t struck him that high or that low, but the warm spread of the impact always travelled out farther than the actual hits. There were some dark spots, already blueing and bruising, that would leave marks—as Dean had said he wanted.

Castiel murmured as much to Dean as he squeezed a few drops of the oil out into his palm.

“’S good,” Dean mumbled into the pillow. “Want to feel it tomorrow, Sir.”

“I’m sure you will,” Castiel agreed quietly. “And probably your throat, too. I’d get you a popsicle or something if I was at home, but we will have to make do here, and you’ll have to promise me you’ll do whatever you need to be comfortable later.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, but then he nodded against the pillow, his shallow stubble rustling the fabric. “Yes, Sir.”

Castiel trickled some of the vitamin E oil directly onto the swell of Dean’s ass, earning him a jerk and a hiss. Castiel smiled. “It might sting a little, but it’ll make it feel better many times faster, I promise.”

“I know,” Dean pushed out between gritted teeth. “Just stings, like you said. Go ahead, Sir.”

As much as Castiel loved watching Dean’s skin bloom crimson under his palm, he loved this too: smoothing the healing, softening oil across Dean’s thighs, delicate and careful, making sure he got every angry, swelling spot of skin. Taking care of his sub, giving them the attention that they deserved after the exquisite gift that they had just given _him._

“You were so good for me,” Castiel said as he lavished more oil up over Dean’s cheeks and onto the base of his back, leaving his skin thick and glossy with it. “Which I’m very happily surprised at, as we already established that you can be a bit of a brat sometimes.”

“It’s been known,” Dean said, a smile in his voice even if the pillow was hiding it from Castiel’s sight. A shame; Dean’s smile was beautiful.

Done with the oil, Castiel wiped his hands on his leather pants, uncaring—that was a problem for the dry cleaner, his attention was elsewhere—and picked up the small tube of arnica cream. Plenty of people that Castiel had met in the BDSM scene swore by this stuff for healing bruises quickly.

Dean may have said that he wanted to feel Castiel’s efforts tomorrow, and Castiel didn’t doubt that to be true, but three days from now that might well be different. Marking someone up for pleasure was different to injuring them, in Castiel’s mind. And he didn’t know Dean well enough to know what his limit for enjoyment would be with that. Not yet, at least.

Squeezing a little of the thick, white cream onto the angriest parts of Dean’s skin, where the bruising was already beginning to make itself known, Castiel ignored Dean’s flinching until he was done.

“There we go,” he said, twisting the cap back onto the tube. “I’m sorry if it was uncomfortable. It’s for the best.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I get it.”

Dean would shower when he got home, Castiel assumed, but he was sure that Dean wouldn’t object to being at least a little cleaner. “Do you think you can stand to roll over for just a minute?” he asked, returning the pouch of lotions to his bag on the floor and pulling out a simple package of baby wipes.

Dean flipped over slowly, still looking a bit dazed and groggy, and let out a yelp as his red skin hit the sheet. Still, he grit his teeth, and hissed out weakly, “Of course, Sir.”

He was a good sub, Castiel couldn’t help but think as he pulled a handful of wipes from the package. So obedient—at least when he wanted to be, Castiel had a feeling. Castiel didn’t intend for him to be uncomfortable now, though. They were done with that portion of the night. So he made haste, swiftly wiping down Dean’s sticky stomach.

“Can I?” Castiel made sure to ask, his fingers on the waistband of Dean’s gorgeous—if come-ruined—underwear.

“Yeah,” Dean said, a little pink beginning to appear in his cheeks. “Go ahead.”

It seemed like Dean was coming back to himself enough to feel a little embarrassment—either at the lacy underwear or at someone cleaning him, Castiel wasn’t sure—so Castiel worked swiftly and efficiently, tugging the pretty panties down enough to wipe away the remnants of his release from within, to make him more comfortable.

“Do you have a clean pair you can wear home?” Castiel asked, his fingers poised on the lace bunched around Dean’s thighs.

“Jeans’ pocket,” Dean mumbled. “Was hoping I’d get lucky, so there’s a clean pair in there.”

Castiel smiled as he stepped away from the bed just long enough to find Dean’s jeans on the floor and find them for him.

Dean lifted his hips without prompting, and let Castiel help him into the fresh pair—simple black silk, beautifully reflective in the low overhead light. Done with all of that, Castiel tossed the wipes and kicked the duffle bag back under the bed, and climbed up onto the mattress.

He settled himself on the other half of the bed to Dean, then reached out, touching Dean’s shoulder lightly.

“Come here,” he said, more suggestion than command.

Dean took it anyway, rolling off his back with some relief and into Castiel’s side, tucking his head beneath Castiel’s chin like he belonged there. Dean’s shampoo smelled citrusy, and Castiel couldn’t help inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with it. He wrapped Dean in his arms, smiling down into his crown at the ease of it.

Against Castiel’s neck, Dean let out a slow sigh.

“What kind of sigh was that?” Castiel asked quietly, letting his fingers trail down Dean’s bare back and up again, over the bumps of his lovely leather harness. He’d be so beautiful suspended in that, Castiel thought.

“Good,” Dean mumbled. “Just…good. That was nice. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, I assure you,” Castiel said into Dean’s hair.

They lay like that for long minutes—Castiel thought that Dean had fallen asleep, his breathing regular and deep against Castiel’s bare chest. He wouldn’t have minded—he’d paid for the room overnight, anyway. But eventually, Dean stirred. He rolled slightly off Castiel, pulling back and blinking up at him.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, looking much clearer and more like the flirty barista that Castiel had met.

“Hello, Dean,” he said in turn, unable to help the smile that he could feel tugging his cheeks up.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I offered you ‘coffee, tea, or me’,” Dean said with a grin. “No complaints though, that was better.”

Chuckling, Castiel smoothed his hand slowly down Dean’s bare side. “It was very satisfying. You are a wonderful sub, Dean. I’m honored that you let me be your Dom for the night.”

A little pink, Dean ducked his eyes down to the pillow. “Pretty sure I’m the one that should be thanking you for sticking around, even after it turned out to be me.”

Cautious, unsure where they now stood, Castiel reached across and gently hooked his finger under Dean’s chin to draw his gaze back up. “Do I need to tell you again that I wanted you from the start?” he asked smoothly. “That I just didn’t realize you’d be interested in having me this way, too?”

“No, I believe you.”

Satisfied, Castiel removed his hand from Dean’s face. His fingers hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment, unsure where to rest, until Dean came up to catch them. Tangling their fingers together, Dean brought their entwined hands to his chest, looking down thoughtfully at them as he spoke again.

“So, you were serious, before? About that date, I mean.”

“Completely,” Castiel replied firmly. “Dinner, wherever you’d like. I’m a little too new in town to be aware of the options.”

“Well,” Dean said with a wry laugh, “there really ain’t that many options, not in Charming Acres. And like hell am I going for a date at the diner where I work. So, how’d you feel about coming over to my place? I cook. Don’t get a chance to, not much, but”—a little of the confidence ebbed out of Dean’s voice and his tone became a hopeful whisper—“I’d like to cook for you, Cas.”

Warmth flooded through Castiel’s chest in a pleasurable wave that could rival the high from what they’ve just done. That didn’t sound like just a date, just a _chance_ , just a deal they made. That sounded more like the start of something.

Castiel pulled their joined hands from Dean’s chest so that he could kiss a smile down into their knuckles, and whisper back warmly, “I’d love that, Dean.”


	4. Chapter 4

Why? Why had Dean asked Castiel to come over to his place for dinner? Castiel was clearly  _ fancy _ , with his expensive suits and stuffy job, even if his suits fit like he was panhandling and he called his job “boring.” Dean lived in a crappy apartment with no hot water, down the road from a chicken farm.

His palms were sweating.

Luckily, the one thing Dean  _ could _ say about his run-down home was that at least the oven heated evenly. He quickly sent up a prayer of thanks to the last tenant, who had caused a small fire with a ham casserole and forced the owners to install a new oven right before Dean moved in. If the tiles on the wall behind it were still a bit charred-looking, who cared.

Well…it turned out that Dean cared. He hadn’t, up until he invited Castiel over to dinner, but now his shabby apartment just didn’t seem good enough. So with less than an hour to go, Dean was leaning over the stovetop and going wild on the tiles with a soapy Brillo pad.

Sam had stopped by just a few minutes earlier to pick up a movie from Dean’s extensive collection, and he’d left laughing when he’d seen Dean’s pre-date cleaning spree. He had told Dean “good luck,” at least. How his dorky little brother had gotten to be so grown and smug and married with children, Dean would never know. He was pretty sure he had still been changing the kid’s diapers last month.

Sighing, Dean straightened up. He surveyed his progress and decided that it was probably as good as it was going to get. Tossing the metallic scrubbing pad into the trash— _ Gotta take that out before Cas gets here— _ he wiped the sweat from his brow and decided that it was time for a shower before he started cooking the burger patties that were firming up in the fridge.

The lukewarm water cascading down Dean’s back and over his butt barely stung—Castiel’s gentle care after their scene at Impact had really done its job. There was a dull ache, but no stinging or soreness. As the shower beat down onto his shoulders, Dean tried to work out why, especially given all he now knew about Castiel, he was so nervous.

With women, Dean had  _ plenty _ of game. He was a decent-looking guy and he knew it; add in a confident swagger and a  _ go get ‘em _ attitude, and Dean never had much trouble with the ladies. But with men…that had been a little harder. He’d hidden that part of himself for quite a few years, and something about that had made it just a bit harder with guys. He tried to lay on the charm just like he did with girls, but he wasn’t quite as confident with it. Even so, he liked to think his batting average was pretty good.

So it wasn’t that.

It was  _ Cas.  _ Something about him…he made Dean’s insides flippy-floppy. It was silly, maybe, but it was true—Dean’s stomach got butterflies from Castiel. Even now, knowing what he did about the man, even having subbed for him…Dean was nervous. He really, really liked Castiel.

And he wasn’t sure he was good enough.

After giving himself a quick pep talk in the bathroom mirror, Dean slipped on his favorite pair of jeans (they made his ass look great, and he already knew Castiel was a fan) and a red and black checked shirt. A quick slick of hair gel and he didn’t think he looked bad at all—inviting Castiel over to his place took off some of the pressure to dress up, but he still wanted to make a good impression.

Hurrying back to the kitchen, Dean threw himself into burger prep—abandoning the heating pan for a minute when he realized he’d forgotten to take the damn trash out after all—and cracked open a beer. Turning on some music, Dean tried to relax.

Everything was fine. It was all going to be fine.

Before he’d left Impact the night before, Castiel had given Dean his number and they’d agreed on a time. They’d exchanged a couple of text messages throughout the day—Dean’s address, were burgers okay, could Castiel bring anything to help? Dean smiled like an idiot every time his phone lit up.

It illuminated again, vibrating loudly atop the counter. Dean grabbed a dish towel and wiped his fingers before sliding a thumb across the screen.

_ Castiel [06:56 PM]: I’m outside _

Dean let his heart do one quick lap of the kitchen before he took a deep breath and told it to calm the fuck down. He hit the buzzer to open the door downstairs, then swiftly bent over to check his hair in the reflective surface of the toaster.

Looking good. All fine. This was totally—

Castiel’s sharp knock told Dean he was out of time to panic. He smoothed down his shirt and opened the door, grinning goofily.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel stood outside expectantly with a dorky grin to match Dean’s own. He was wearing worn jeans and a denim jacket over a simple navy shirt. He wasn’t dressed up, but he looked  _ good _ .

Dean couldn’t help but smile to himself, wondering if Castiel had been nervous, too. Had he put as much thought into looking casual-but-good as Dean had?

Castiel held up a six-pack of Texan Star beer, smiling slightly sheepishly. “I know you said not to bring anything…”

Dean chuckled as he stepped aside to let Castiel into the kitchen and click the door shut behind him. The apartment was too small to have any kind of hallway, just the open plan kitchen and living area, then one bedroom and the tiny bathroom beyond. Dean reached out and took the beer with a smile so that he could put them in the refrigerator.

“Thanks, Cas. How’d you know this was one of my favorites?”

Castiel’s lip quirked just the tiniest amount; Dean would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it. “It was what you were drinking when you were dancing at Impact,” Castiel answered quietly.

“Observant.”

“That has been said about me, yes.”

“Well, come on in and make yourself at home. Food won’t be too long.”

Dean had thought that Castiel would go and sit awkwardly on the couch until Dean was ready, the way dates usually would. Instead, Castiel hung up his coat on the hooks Dean had next to the door, between Dean’s khaki jacket and a beat-up leather one that had been his dad’s. Then he pushed up his sleeves and stepped up next to Dean in the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?”

“I’m supposed to be cooking for  _ you, _ you know.” Dean grinned, secretly delighted that he wanted to help.

Castiel shrugged. “If I help, we can talk while we cook.”

Dean certainly had nothing against that. He indicated to the refrigerator where he’d just stashed the beer. “Alright, then—lettuce and tomato duty.”

Castiel looked inquisitively around the kitchen while Dean fetched him a knife and board. “Did you burn something?” he asked curiously, squinting at the tiles Dean had spent so much time scrubbing. 

“No,” Dean muttered beneath his breath sulkily. So much for making a good impression.

He got Castiel set up to wash and slice, then went back to the pan of burger patties. They stood close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, in the small, cabin-style kitchen as they worked. Ozzy Osbourne sang quietly about ‘ _ Changes’ _ in the background, and Dean couldn’t help sneaking looks at Castiel while they worked. Dean’s chest lightened, a small grin pulling at his face involuntarily. Spotting him looking, Castiel smiled back and nudged Dean’s shoulder with his own.

“What?” he asked.

Dean shrugged, turning his smile back to the pan. “This is nice.”

Castiel regarded him for a moment, turning a tomato in his hands before beginning to slice it. “Yes,” he agreed softly, smiling down at the puddle of squirting seeds on the cutting board. “It is.”

“Here—” Dean put his spatula down and moved over into Castiel’s space, showing him how to cut the tomatoes in the other direction, so that the seeds stayed inside the perfectly ripe flesh.

Castiel allowed him, listening intently, then copying Dean’s motions exactly. “Thank you,” he said when Dean stepped back to the pan. “I’ve never been much of a cook. My family was very traditional; it was always my mother’s job. I’d like to be better at it, though.”

“I learned because I had to,” Dean said as he flipped the patties. “Pretty much raised my brother. Mom died when we were young, and Dad left us in a motel with a couple dollars and a can opener more times than I can count. Sometimes the can opener didn’t even work.”

“Seems that I had no space to breathe and grow, while you had too much.”

And that’s how conversation progressed, easy, filling in all the quiet spaces while they cooked and built huge, stacked burgers, and then pulled out the baked mac and cheese Dean had slid into the oven before his shower. They took a beer each over to the couch, and Castiel made absolutely filthy noises as he showed his appreciation for Dean’s from-scratch patties.

Castiel, Dean discovered, was intense about  _ everything _ .

Whenever Dean would tell a story, Castiel would focus on him as if there was nothing else in the world to see. When he’d share about his own interests, it was no different—the passion and excitement he showed when talking about bee conservation and wanting to have his own hives one day was not only adorable, in Dean’s opinion, but forceful.

They talked about families, and history, and friends. Castiel listened to Dean wax lyrical about classic rock and his favorite movies, then confessed he was woefully ignorant of both due to his upbringing. Dean vowed to begin fixing that as soon as they were done eating. They talked about their favorite books, and Castiel offered to lend Dean some of his—if he enjoyed Vonnegut and Steinbeck and Bradbury, he surely had to try Palahniuk.

Entirely relaxed in each other’s company, thighs touching on the couch with their beers by the time their burgers were gone, Dean couldn’t remember what he’d ever been nervous about.

Dean got up just long enough to turn on the TV and navigate to ‘ _ A New Hope’. _ Castiel expressed confusion that they weren’t watching the movies in the right order, but Dean soon corrected him on that.

By the time the first Imperial Star Destroyer had loomed across the screen, Dean had pulled his feet up onto the couch, and only moments later Castiel had Dean’s legs across his lap, smiling contentedly. The weight of Castiel’s large hands resting on his knees and idly stroking at his thighs as the movie progressed drove Dean to distraction.

When Dean returned from getting them another beer halfway through, he settled back onto the cushions right next to Castiel, enjoying the warm pressure of Castiel’s side along his own. Castiel took his beer with a smile and a “Thanks,” before reaching up and wrapping his arm around Dean.

Strangely giddy, Dean leaned in and snuggled up against Castiel. Flicking his eyes upward, he whispered quietly over the sounds of Obi-Wan’s sacrifice, “Is this okay?”

Castiel smiled down at him, nodded, and whispered back, “Shh, the man in the robe just died,” before pressing his lips into Dean’s hair.

Dean bit his bottom lip as he grinned, letting his attention wander back to the TV. It didn’t stay there for long, though—he’d seen this movie a hundred times if he’d seen it once, and how was he supposed to concentrate with Castiel’s firm chest right there like that?

After a few minutes of pretending to watch, Dean looked back up to find Castiel gazing right back at him. They each let out a soft huff of laughing air at being caught.

As if catching Dean gazing back at him had helped Castiel make some kind of decision, he leaned down and brushed their lips together lightly.

Dean wasn’t having that; he reached up to tangle his fingers in the short hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck and pulled him right back in, pressing them together again more surely.

They made out like teenagers. Dean ended up sprawled on his back on the couch, with Castiel caging him in from above, chest-to-chest. It was heady and drugging, and Dean only came up for air when John William’s dramatic title music began to fill the living room as the credits rolled.

Castiel blinked in surprise as he pulled back, just enough to turn to look at the TV. He frowned at it for a moment, lost, before looking back down at Dean.

“How did they get rid of the big black ship?”

Laughing, Dean pressed his forehead into Castiel’s shoulder. “I guess you’ll have to come back for another date and watch it again,” he suggested, hoping that he sounded confident, and not nervous and desperately hopeful, like he felt.

“No complaints there,” Castiel replied easily, his lips brushing agonizingly lightly down Dean’s neck.

Tilting his head to the side, Dean let out a content little moan, letting his hands slip down Castiel’s back and looping his thumbs over his belt so that Dean’s fingers could tease over his butt. Castiel’s mouth was magical. Dean could feel Castiel smile against his skin at the moaning noise, but then he pulled back.

“Dean, I—”

Dean pouted. It was childish, and it was bratty, but pulling away from him was the  _ last _ thing Dean wanted Castiel to do.

Castiel bit down on his lip as if laughing wasn’t the reaction he wanted to have, but he huffed out a chuckle, regardless. “Stop that,” he said gently, leaning back down enough that he could run the pad of his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip. “I only wanted to say that I had told myself that I would try and be good today, and not have sex with you or—”

“Well, that doesn’t sound remotely like being  _ good _ ,” Dean interrupted, reinstating his pout more deliberately. “It sounds awful, scrap that.”

Castiel chuckled, sitting up on the couch but at least pulling Dean with him. “Dean,” he said pointedly, “really. I just wanted to get to know you. That’s all.”

“And you can’t get to know me with your tongue in my ass?” Dean asked hopefully.

Dean hadn’t realized that people could get their whole body in on a simple eye roll, but somehow Castiel managed.

“Don’t think that I don’t want you,” Castiel said, resting his hand just inside the collar of Dean’s shirt and softly shifting his fingers over the curve of Dean’s neck, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. “That’s not it, at all. Yesterday, I saw one part of you—and it was an enchanting part, a part I want to see a lot more of—but I’m just as interested in seeing the rest of you, too. If that’s something that you want.”

Dean’s chest gave a hopeful, thumping flutter. So, of course, he deflected. “Careful, Cas,” he said with a wink, nudging his knee against Castiel’s thigh where they now sat, face-to-face, legs a jumble on the couch. “I might start thinking you  _ like _ me.”

Castiel seemed amused by Dean’s sing-song, childish tone, but his answer was blunt. “I do like you,” he said, “and given time, I think I could easily  _ a-lot-more-than-like _ you.”

Dean had to do  _ something _ to shut him up before he either melted into an embarrassing puddle on the couch or said something sappy he’d regret. Occupying his mouth seemed like a perfectly good option.

As Dean leaned in, kissing Castiel long and lush, he felt Castiel breathe in harshly, felt his body reacting. “Cas,” he whispered against his lips. “I get it—I get it, because I like you, too. Maybe we can”—Dean didn’t usually stumble over his words with his dates, but in his hope and desire he found himself mumbling and flushing between their kisses—“just, maybe, me and you? Nothing planned or…y’know. If you want, though. No pressure, or anything.”

Castiel’s mouth was on Dean’s neck again. He bent to Dean’s will in a way that Dean knew he never normally would, his lips caressing the hollow of Dean’s collarbone as he whispered, “Just me and you.”

Dean’s fresh, citrusy scent was overwhelming Castiel’s senses in the very best way. He must have just showered before their date, Castiel reasoned; he could taste the freshness on Dean’s skin and smell the clean tang of soap, lemony shampoo, and something deeper and muskier beneath it that might just be  _ Dean. _

Castiel kissed and licked and nipped at Dean’s neck, eyes closed, just basking in the scent of him as he went deliciously pliant under Castiel’s attention. The little noises he made, too—tiny moans and gasping pants, giving no care to being quiet or restrained. Dean liked what he liked and wanted what he wanted, and he wasn’t shy about showing it, not like this.

He’d have to make sure Dean knew he could be as loud as he liked, always, Castiel decided. Gags weren’t going to be high on his list, not when Dean made such beautiful, uninhibited noises.

“This was a good choice,” Castiel said between kisses, surprised at how husky his voice had become. Though given who was shifting on the couch between his thighs, husky made sense.

Dean made a deep rumble of agreement between their lips.

Castiel certainly wasn’t against fooling around on the couch, but he had the vague idea that he wanted his first time with Dean to be a little more  _ special _ than that. Meeting Dean the way he had (twice!) had to have been kismet, to his mind—and who was he to argue with fate when it came equipped with verdant green eyes and an ass like that?

Dean made a delighted, triumphant sound beneath Castiel, and that was all the invitation that he needed. As Castiel sat up and pushed from the couch, pulling Dean with him, he ran his hands down Dean’s back, across the cheeks of his perfect ass—unable to resist a squeeze—and across his thighs, until he could get a good grip.

“I am whisking you away to bed,” Castiel said, feeling light, eager, and playful.

As he was lifted from the couch, Dean let out a surprised yell that turned into a laugh, and quickly wrapped his arms around Castiel’s neck for some stability. “You’re taking me to my  _ own _ bed, Cas.”

Castiel grinned into Dean’s neck as he made his way across the room. “There’s only two doors and one is a bathroom, so I’m  _ hoping _ there’s a bed behind the other.”

Dean’s chuckle was low, strangely forced, and a little too brief, his hands pausing their caressing along the back of Castiel’s shoulders. “Yeah, this place is kinda small and shitty.”

Sensing that something was off, Castiel detached his tongue from the long line of Dean’s neck and took a breath, but he didn’t manage to get even a sound out before Dean continued.

“I’m sure it’s kinda rough and dingy, compared to what you’re used to—fancy accountant like you.”

Under Castiel’s hands as he held Dean aloft beside the couch, Dean’s shoulder blades shifted with a shrug. Dismissive. Uncaring. And ultimately, fake—Castiel was certain of it. If Dean didn’t really care, he wouldn’t have said anything.

“Fancy accountant? Why would you say that?” Castiel asked.

With a one-shouldered shrug, Dean mumbled, “I ain’t shit, Cas. This crappy apartment and a crappy job, that’s all I’ve got.”

For a moment, Castiel’s mind raced through the options he had to respond with—but very quickly he settled on blunt honesty. Better to squash any of Dean’s misgivings right out of the gate, rather than have them rear their ugly heads later.

Looking Dean straight in the eye with a small smile, he said, “Dean, I don’t care where you live, or how much you make, or what your job is. I only care about who you are. It changes nothing.”

Dean opened his mouth, protest clear on his lips, so Castiel spoke up again.

“I can already tell that you’re smart, and fun, and well-loved by the people who know you. Wouldn't it be just as easy for me to turn the tables and say I’m not good enough for you, a boring numbers man like me?”

Dean looked shocked. “You’re not—no way, Cas, that’s stupid.”

“I’m glad you agree. Now, less self-depreciation and more sex? I’m hoping we’ll have a long time together to bare our souls, but for now, I’d like to bare your ass.”

Blinking at Castiel’s bluntness, it took Dean a second to respond. But when he did, he did it forcefully, grinning his devastating grin before diving in and kissing Castiel  _ hard. _

Taking a step back to steady himself, Castiel pushed back into the deep kiss with a grunt. While Dean slipped his tongue teasingly between Castiel’s lips, they made their way to the bedroom door. The apartment fixtures were definitely from the budget end of the hardware store, and the bedroom door may as well have been made of paper. It was so light that it swung open at just one slight tap from the toe of Castiel’s boot, rattling unevenly as it met the wall.

Castiel didn’t take in much of the room as he entered—he had  _ much _ more important things on his mind—but he did notice the mattress when he tumbled Dean down onto it with a soft  _ thud _ . It was hard to miss, the way his knees sunk down into it, cocooned firmly.

“Memory foam,” Castiel commented, looking down at Dean as he lay back on the bed, pushed up on his elbows.

Dean patted the deep blue comforter beneath him with a smile. “She remembers me.”

Castiel reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt as he chuckled in response. “Do you anthropomorphize everything? Your car, your mattress…”

“Only the things that matter,” Dean responded perfectly seriously, before crooking his fingers to wave Castiel forward. “Come here—let me.”

Castiel toed off his boots over the edge of the bed, letting them fall to the carpet with a duo of thumps before he knee-walked up toward Dean, straddling his waist. Watching Dean reach across the space between them to begin to work on opening the tiny buttons on Castiel’s shirt, Castiel couldn’t help but admire his hands for a moment—they were big and strong, and he could see slight callouses on the palms and thumbs that his own hands just didn’t have.

Sexually submissive as he may be, Dean was no wilting twink, and Castiel loved it.

Dragging his eyes back up to Dean’s face, Castiel admired his spit-slick lips and the ghost of stubble, before losing himself in Dean’s eyes once more. They were so  _ green— _ Castiel had rarely seen eyes that green, if ever.

“You’re so beautiful,” Castiel found himself murmuring, enchanted.

“Says you,” Dean said flippantly, reaching the end of his button trail and pulling the front of Castiel’s shirt apart.

As Dean’s fingers reverently skated across his skin, Castiel shivered at the light, electric touch. He’d had his hands on Dean back at the club, but this already felt so different. The air between them crackled as Castiel shucked his shirt and tossed it from the bed, then leaned down to divest Dean of his. They worked up to a storm on the bed with kisses like lightning, making Castiel’s spine tingle.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean panted out as he pulled back for air, his forehead pressed forward into Castiel’s own.

How could Dean already look so debauched, when they were only minutes in? Still half-clothed, spread out luxuriously under Castiel like this, Dean was a vision. The room was dim, but the half-open blinds allowed orangey rays from the distant sunset to illuminate the bed with warm shafts of light, painting Dean’s supple chest in hues of gold and glowing yellow.

“Would you like me to?” Castiel asked suggestively, shifting his lips across Dean’s jaw and on down the side of his neck, grinning into his skin.

Dean groaned deeply, going pliant against the bed as Castiel kept his attention on his neck. “Hell, yeah,” he said, flopping his arm out toward the left nightstand in a pointing gesture. “Condoms are in there.”

Castiel reached over and hooked his fingers into the handle of the drawer, pulling it all the way open with a  _ squeak _ of pine. He looked inside, looking for a telltale box or strip of foil packets…and found all sorts of goodies.

“Oh, very nice,” Castiel said, pulling a slim vibrating dildo from the drawer, a sleek silver one that turned on and off by twisting the end. Winking across at Dean he teasingly asked, “Did you anthropomorphize this too? Is this one a ‘he?’”

“Dick,” Dean laughed, shoving playfully at Castiel’s shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose that’s a good name,” Castiel said very solemnly.

“Alright, funny man,” Dean said, rolling his eyes with an affection that made Castiel’s chest swell. “Unless you’re gonna use that on me, put it back and grab the lube.”

Now there was a thought.

Castiel put the lube  _ and _ the dildo on the bed.

Dean watched with an eager, interested grin as Castiel shifted his knees, settling onto the mattress beside Dean’s hip. Unable to resist, he leaned in to kiss him again, missing the taste of his tongue already.

“You’re a bit cocky when you’re not subbing,” Castiel noted as he trailed his hand down the side of Dean’s body, watching his muscles twitch beneath the light, dragging touch. “Do you switch?”

Dean stilled and raised an eyebrow. “Why, do you?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. But I’d like to know if it’s something you want, or even need.”

Relaxing minutely, Dean raised a hand to tangle in the back of Castiel’s hair. “No,” he admitted, quieter. “Sex like this…this is fun, too. No rules, just being playful, sharing an experience—I love this, as well as submitting to someone. But I have no interest in Domming. I could, I guess, if a partner wanted. But it wouldn’t be something I’d do for myself. Subbing is…”

Dean trailed off for a moment, and Castiel let him gather his thoughts while he pressed soft, wet kisses into his chest.

“It’s this...this feeling of freedom and relaxation that I can’t really compare to anything. Not having to be responsible, or make any decisions about what I need, or anyone else—” Dean shook his head slightly, smiling, “—I get this intense, awesome sense of total euphoria that I can’t get any other way.”

Castiel gave up on kissing, well aware that he was smiling dopily as he stared down at Dean, caged between his arms. “It’s a beautiful thing that it makes you feel that way, Dean. For me, that’s perfect—so be my sub, and mine alone. We can put together a contract, do the whole thing.”

“Yours,” Dean agreed breathlessly, tugging Castiel down again so that their lips crashed together once more.

God, kissing Dean was Castiel’s heaven; of that much, he was certain.

Working his way back down Dean’s stomach, it didn’t take more than a minute to get Dean’s jeans off and release his already half-hard cock, and for Castiel to pour some Astroglide onto his fingers. Giving the lube a minute to warm up, or at least take the chill off, Castiel took a moment to admire Dean—he hadn’t actually gotten too much of a look at him at Impact, as even when Dean had orgasmed, he’d been face down.

A shame, Castiel now realized; Dean’s cock was  _ pretty. _

Smooth and rosy-tipped, he curved slightly upward toward his stomach. Thick right from the base, the heft of him made Castiel’s mouth water. Dean’s neatly trimmed hair was a dark, nut brown, and Castiel couldn’t resist trailing his fingers through it, looking forward to being able to feel it tickling his nose and lips someday soon.

Dean was fantastically responsive. The moans and shivers that overtook him as Castiel wrapped a hand around his cock, coaxing him to full hardness, were enough to get Castiel all the way to straining against his jeans. 

The room was getting dimmer as the sun set, and Dean’s eyes looked to be a deep hunter green in the remaining glow, dark and ravenous as they gazed down at Castiel's movements. Dean’s eyes only shifted slightly when Castiel sent an exploratory wet finger south, rolling back closed to a tune of groaning before they came back to their unerring position. Castiel liked it; he liked Dean watching as Castiel pulled him apart.

With plenty of lube, Castiel made Dean’s moans a discordant rhythm to his own uneven breathing. Easily pumping two fingers, soon three, was only a lead up to the toy being slipped in and clicked to  _ ‘on.’ _

“There we go,” Castiel crooned, watching Dean’s back arch, forced to palm at himself through his jeans with his other hand. “Watching you is so hot, Dean.”

The sun shyly left them to their debauchery, but the moon that had already been in the sky even as Castiel was arriving at the apartment stepped up to take over. In shadows and moonlight, Dean writhed on the navy sheets, bucking down on the toy. 

“Cas— _ fuck— _ c’mere. I wanna touch you.” Dean waved his hands encouragingly toward himself as he spoke, as if Castiel somehow needed directions to be closer to Dean, like Dean wasn’t a magnet to Castiel’s iron core.

Laying on his side next to Dean in the silvery almost-dark seemed to heighten every sensation. Castiel could feel the hot length of Dean’s body pressing into his stomach and chest as he worked the toy in, out, in, out—and  _ tilt… _

_ “Oh! _ Shit! Cas!”

Dean’s hands stilled in their scrambling for Castiel’s belt as he deliberately grazed Dean’s prostate, and Castiel leaned in to kiss him soundly. “You like that?” Castiel asked, coy.

“You have got to get these pants off right this minute,” Dean babbled. 

Castiel laughed, warm and delighted, and kicked his legs to help. Finally gloriously naked, he buried his own noises in Dean’s neck as his cock was given some blessed relief by Dean’s eager hands. 

Silhouetted in moonlight alone, the room held its breath as they steadily climbed, joined at the lips, the buzz of the vibrator and the slick of the lube barely audible over their shaky shared inhalations.

“Cas,” Dean whispered into the negative space between their faces, his nose nuzzling alongside Castiel’s. “I want to come on your cock.”

Were there better words to hear in the dark?

Castiel slid the toy fully out of Dean’s slick ass, the sound of vibrations suddenly louder in the room as they were no longer muffled by clenching muscle. Dean groaned deliciously at the sensation, and Castiel couldn’t wait to hear what noise he made when he sunk into him, instead. 

Even in the cloaking night, it only took a moment to roll on the condom, kneel between Dean’s waiting thighs, and line up with his soft, gaping hole. The toy had made entering Dean much easier, but even so the pressure around Castiel’s cock as he slowly pushed in made him keen a long, low note until he finally bottomed out. 

“You good?” Dean asked as Castiel’s head hung low over his stomach. 

_ “God— _ yes, yes,” Castiel reassured him breathlessly, his arms shaking either side of Dean’s ribcage as he supported himself on the memory foam. “You’re just so tight, so perfect.”

Hands came up to Castiel’s hair as his head curled down toward Dean’s abdomen, stroking him through the initial pleasure-shock of feeling Dean around him.

When he was certain he wasn’t going to come from the merest twitch, Castiel slowly pulled his hips back, dragging himself deliberately out until the muscles of Dean’s rim tugged on the sensitive spot right beneath his head. Catching Castiel, enticing him back in. 

After a few measured thrusts to the tune of Dean’s heavy panting, Castiel uncurled, seeking out Dean’s lips again as he built up a rocking, deep, slow rhythm. 

He didn’t want to go any faster. The moonlight was highlighting Dean’s cheekbones and the tips of his hair, and through the silver air Castiel could still make out the ecstasy in Dean’s eyes. No way would he rush this. 

He could listen to the hot slap of their skin forever.

Dean seemed to be of the same mind. His hands came up to cling on to Castiel; one curled around his hips and one under his arm, angled up over his shoulder blade so that Dean could sink his fingers into the short hair of Castiel’s nape. 

“So close,” Castiel panted. He could feel trickles of sweat gathering at his brow and between his shoulder blades, and beneath him Dean’s brow shone reflectively in the moonlight from the window. 

“Gonna come?” Dean encouraged, angling his hips on the bed for leverage as he clenched around Castiel. “Gonna fill my ass, Cas?”

“Ah— _ uh— _ yes, yes!” Castiel gritted out as he came, leaning back and grabbing at Dean’s hips as the soft cheeks of Dean’s ass shook against his thighs.

He could feel himself twitching within Dean as come stuttered out of him and filled the condom, warm and wet. Dean’s hand, wrapped tight around himself, flew over his cock as Castiel thrust out the last couple of spurts, trembling with effort and arousal. God, that had been so good, so wonderful, so—

If Castiel hadn’t come only moments before, the feeling of Dean clenching and shuddering around him as he came over his own stomach would have ripped another orgasm from Castiel right then.

“Oh, yes, Dean—yes, that’s it…” Castiel slipped out before his dick became too sensitive, holding the condom with the loop of his finger and thumb so that it didn’t spill as he withdrew. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean murmured delieriously, his voice a sigh. “That was amazing.”

Castiel was fumbling in the dark to pull off the condom when Dean flicked on the nightstand lamp to help him. He got the full view of Dean, then, bowlegs akimbo, chest flushed pink with exertion, the exquisite treat of his body frosted with his own release. 

“God, look at you,” Castiel whispered, crawling back over Dean the moment he was done depositing their protection into a tissue on the nightstand, ready for the trash. 

Dean looked up at him for a moment, goofy and flushed with happiness, and pressed a chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips before he reached across to grab some tissues for himself, to clean up his stomach. Castiel would have loved to do it for him with his tongue, but they couldn’t do that. Not yet. Though he was hoping Dean would agree to it, and they could both get tested and indulge in as much cumplay as they liked.

Once Dean was clean, he brought up his knees and tucked his legs down under the comforter, before opening his arms to Castiel.

More than happy to oblige, Castiel went. 

“You gonna sleep here tonight, Cas?” Dean asked the sensitive skin behind Castiel’s ear. 

Castiel thought for a moment how best to answer so that he wouldn’t sound like he didn’t care, or that he cared too much; “It’s up to you” didn’t telegraph enough enthusiasm, but “I put clean clothes in my car for the morning, just in case,” might be a little much.

But the time Castiel rolled over in Dean’s arms to confess to his hopeful baggage downstairs, Dean’s face was already relaxed in sleep.

Castiel feather-kissed his way across Dean’s forehead, then curled into him, content.

The memory foam mattress, Castiel discovered, was superior to anything else he’d ever slept on. He indulged in silly, way-ahead-of-himself dreams where he asked Dean to move into his tiny pastel dollhouse in Charming Acres, and Dean brought the mattress with him so they awoke on it together every morning.

Warm and satisfied, Castiel slept blissfully.

Always an early riser, Castiel opened his eyes at dawn. He watched Dean enjoy the last of his sleep in the growing light from the window. He’d been in Dean’s kitchen—he could start some coffee. Dean would probably like that.

Unless Dean wanted something else to drink in the morning? Castiel thoughts were cut off by a snuffling murmur as Dean’s eyelids fluttered, and his arms sleepily groped for Castiel. 

Powerless and unwilling to go against what Dean wanted, Castiel snuggled back down. He could feel Dean’s morning wood against his thigh, and it gave him all kinds of ideas—

“Whatcha thinkin’ about so early in the morning, sunshine?” Dean mumbled sleepily, drawing Castiel’s eyes to his. 

Castiel grinned, rolling his hips against Dean’s front as he leaned in to whisper suggestively, “Coffee, tea, or me, Dean?”

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote, folks...at least for this AU!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read through this fun little fic. I had a lot of fun writing it, and getting matched up with [FieryAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryAngel) for this bang was a dream come true. (I promise I didn't bribe her, y'all...) 
> 
> If you enjoyed this Destiel romp, please do [subscribe here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile), or add one of my social media profiles: [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), or [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/MalMuses)
> 
> Thank you, again. You are so appreciated!
> 
> \- Mal <3


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